


Dragon-spell

by serenityabrin



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: 98 Percent Book-Canon, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Dragon Curse, M/M, Politics, Romance, Slow Build, Study of Character Motivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:17:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3967606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenityabrin/pseuds/serenityabrin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of the destruction wrought by Smaug, Thranduil comes to aid the people of Lake-town to further his own ends.  Strategy and necessity bring Thranduil and Bard together, but mutual respect and admiration soon follow.  As their friendship deepens, Bard battles a slowly worsening illness, not knowing that he has actually fallen under Smaug's dying curse.  When the truth is discovered, Thranduil fights to break the curse and save Bard's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Terminology  
> •Leech - archaic word for healer or physician  
> •"Ada" - Sindarin for Dad  
> •"Adan" - Sindarin for Human Person*
> 
> Additional Author's Notes can be found in the last chapter.

Shingles slipping under his feet, it was all Bard could do to keep his footing.  All around him the city was ablaze.  The wood he was standing on creaked as the edges caught flame and he was forced to keep moving if he wished to keep from being burned.

Distantly he was aware of the screams rising up beneath him.  Distantly he was aware that the city was lost.  Distantly he was aware of his own fear.

But his immediate focus was on the dragon in the sky.  Bard pushed all thoughts of safety aside.  He locked away his worry for himself and his children into a tight box in his chest.  All that remained was his determination to end the terror of the dragon once and for all.

On instinct, his feet shifted to accommodate the falling shingles and avoid the cracking timbers.  His eyes trained on the dragon as it dipped and wheeled in the air.  Along the lines of his arms and down his back, his muscles strained to keep the bow taut and steady.

Being as still as he could manage as the building beneath him complained his presence, Bard waited for an opening to strike.  They were quick as lightening when they came: the long neck pulled taut in preparation to lay down another downpour of flame; the slight tilt of the head revealing the gleam of a vulnerable eye; the swish of the long tail leaving the belly open.  Bard had only a split-second to see each and let his arrow fly.

Arrow after arrow flew true.  Arrow after arrow collided with the body of the beast.  And arrow after arrow ricocheted against the tough hide as if they were no more than straw.

His efforts did not go unnoticed.  When the Black Arrow was at last strung, the dragon's blazing demon eyes alit on the little human daring to stand against him.

Bard felt that gaze to the depths of his soul and his aim wavered.  An unaccountable desire seized him to lay his bow down.  He felt his feet become rooted to the spot.  He felt the pull of dragon-spell and it took all his will to fight it.

Steadying his grip, Bard saw the moment when Smaug dived lower than ever and his belly shown white with the glitter of gems in the moonlight -- save for one notable patch of dark.

His fingers letting go of the bow string was a surprise to him.  Instinct drove his actions, sending the arrow to its target with only a casual nod to Bard's conscious thought.

The flight of the arrow was true.  It hit with such force that the entire arrow disappeared into the beast's body.

Bard did not see it.  He was still transfixed by the glowing eyes of the dragon.  For an endless moment, Bard stared -- open and bared.  All of Smaug's hatred shone from his red gaze and Bard felt the full force of it.  He felt the dragon's evil wrapping around him like an oily cloak.

It was suffocating.

Just as Bard thought he would never breathe again -- just as he thought Smaug would rip away Bard's soul with no more than a gaze -- the light of Smaug's eyes flashed in pain and his death-throes crashed the beast into what remained of the town.

Bard only just escaped.


	2. Chapter One

Astride his great black stallion, Thranduil had an excellent view of the devastation of Esgaroth.  It grieved him to see the blackened ruin upon the peaceful waters.  The reports he'd received over the last decades suggested Esgaroth was no longer the thriving trading center it had been when Dale had reigned.  Indeed, his people spoke of the ravages of time and nature unattended.

But in his mind, Thranduil remembered it as it had been when last he'd seen it.  Newly built after the ruin of the first Esgaroth, it had been bright and colorful.  The wealth of Erebor and Dale could be seen in every decoration ornamenting the town.  A fleet of boats had been filled with piles of gold and armed warriors and goods aplenty.

The town had breathed life.  Even if she had fallen from grace since Thranduil had last spied her, her people had endured, and for that she would always be wondrous.

"My Lord Thranduil," a voice called.

Attention diverted from his thoughts, Thranduil turned to find a grim-faced man approaching him.  He was dark of hair and eyes.  A thread-bare coat stretched taut over his broad shoulders, appearing too small for his muscular frame.  It looked faded and soggy, and not at all warm.  Shapeless boots molded to his feet and ill-fitting pants covered his long legs.  All of it appeared to have been mended many times over.

Despite his poor raiment, Thranduil did not doubt for a moment that this was the leader of Esgaroth.  As Thranduil remembered the town in its glory, he remembered Girion and his ancestors.  The stern countenance and stalwart bearing marked this Man out as a leader, but the slope of his nose and the cut of his jaw spoke of his noble lineage.

Many had called Thranduil's name as his horse picked its way closer to the shore and the army of Elves marched forward, but this was the first shout that Thranduil heeded.  With a gentle tap of his heels, the great black charger turned towards Girion's heir.

"Your name, Adan," Thranduil commanded.

Unperturbed by the curt order, the Man sketched a shallow bow and said, "I am Bard, son of Brodd.  It was I who sent messengers to ask for your aid, and I offer the gratitude of all the Lake-men that you have heard our prayers.  Our need is desperate, Sir."

Uninterested in gratitude, Thranduil turned his attention away from the broad-shouldered Man to look out at the shore.  Groups of people had settled around fires.  Only a few makeshift shelters had been erected around the handful of huts that had escaped the dragon's wrath.

There was precious little besides the people themselves, and their number was not insubstantial.  Thranduil could guess their situation.

"We shall talk of terms soon enough.  My people have brought food and supplies for immediate aid.  I trust you have an orderly way to distribute them."

Bard nodded.  Turning slightly, Thranduil gestured behind him.  A moment later, Legolas ran up to his side.  "Legolas will show you where the stores are.  Consult with him on the manner you wish to employ to allocate provisions.  When you have finished, come find me."

He did not wait to hear Bard's response, confident he would be obeyed.  Thranduil turned his horse again and moved back to his own people to see about setting up a camp for the night.

**********************************

Darkness came early, a sure sign winter was approaching swiftly.  Bard had spent more time distributing the Elven provisions than he thought he'd have to.  The Master's men were always hovering about and it was only Bard's presence that kept them at bay.  Only when he was sure that the most vulnerable among his people had been given their fair share did he feel secure in leaving the rest to the Elves.

He knew he should not keep the Elvenking waiting but he could not help detouring to check on his children.

"Da, did you see the Elves?" Tilda said excitedly, throwing herself into a hug.  He scooped her up and held her close, so very grateful she was alive and well.  Nothing else mattered but that his children were safe.

"Indeed, I did.  I even spoke to their king, and I must now take council with him."

"You're going to speak to the Elvenking?" Sigrid said.  She sounded wary.  Shifting Tilda to hold her one-handed, Bard reached out with his free hand to cup his eldest daughter's cheek.

"He has been very generous and already supplied immediate provisions for at least a week.  I must find out how much more he is willing to provide and what he wishes in return," Bard said.

"If the Master finds out that--" Sigrid began.

"Curse the Master," Bain spat.  "He deserted the people when the dragon came.  No one cares what he thinks."

"Bain!" Bard censored sternly.  His son deflated but his defiance was only partially tempered.

"You know it's true, Da," he muttered.

"I know nothing of the sort, and I will not hear such talk again.  Our position is precarious and our people will need every help they can get.  Do not borrow trouble, Son.  The Master's tongue could rival a dragon's and I would not see you its target.  Am I understood?"

Bard glanced significantly at Tilda, who was watching the argument with interest.  He could see that Bain and Sigrid understood, though Bain still looked rebellious.  Bard knew his son well enough though that he knew he would mind his tongue for a little while longer.

That was all Bard could ask.

He hugged Tilda tight and then gave each child a kiss on the forehead.  He parted with last minute instructions not to wait up for him.

Feeling better for the quick visit with his children, Bard strode confidently to meet with the Elvenking.

There was no mistaking Thranduil's pavilion.  It was nestled protectively in the middle of the Elven encampment and towered over all the other tents.  It was a rich golden color where the other Elven tents were shades of forest colors: dark greens and browns and grays.

Elven guards flanked the entrance.  They wore full armor and intimidating helmets that revealed little of their faces.  The one on the right challenged him.

"I am Bard," Bard said calmly.  "Your King commanded my presence."

Apparently having orders regarding his visit, the Elven-guard stood back and allowed Bard entrance.

Bard stepped into a lavish space.  A cheerful fire burned in a raised fire pit at the center of the tent, the smoke curling up to disappear into cleverly designed flaps that allowed air from the ceiling.  Thick rugs covered the rest of the floor so that none of the ground showed.  Curtains closed off what must have been the sleeping section, leaving a greeting area where Thranduil's throne and a large table were situated.

Currently Thranduil stood on one side of the table across from two Elves who looked to be captains or generals.  A large, very detailed map was laid out on the table and one guard was pointing to something on it as he spoke in Elvish.

Thranduil had changed out of the armor Bard had seen him in earlier.  Now he wore a silver robe that complimented the bright gold of his hair.  He stood straight and still as a statue as he listened to the other Elves. 

Bard had only a moment to admire the pale cream of his skin and the trim cut of his figure.  With the plush rugs, Bard did not make much noise as he entered but he still garnered the attention of the three Elves.  Thranduil said something in Elvish that caused the other two Elves to bow and take their leave.

"Ah, Master Bard, I was beginning to think you would not attend me."

Bard tilted his head respectfully.  "My apologies, my Lord.  My people are in disarray and it took longer than I anticipated to distribute the generous provisions you have supplied.  I am at your disposal now."

Thranduil did not respond immediately.  Picking up the wine bottle on the table, he poured two glasses of the dark liquid and then glided around the table to hand one glass to Bard.

"I have been informed that it was you who felled the dragon.  I admit my surprise that you did not make note of that when you introduced yourself to me this afternoon or in the missive you sent to seek my aid," Thranduil said.

Feeling a shiver race down his spine at the mention of the dragon, Bard quickly took a sip of the rich wine to give himself a moment.  The memory of Smaug's red gaze searing into his soul leapt to his mind and it made his gut twist.  "The dragon's death is in the past.  My people must look forward now."

Delicate golden eyebrow arching at his response, Thranduil took his own moment to study Bard.  Bard hoped he would not press the issue, though if the King of Elves desired his account of the dragon's demise, he would give it.

He would not delight in it though.

Fortunately for him, Thranduil did not pursue the matter.  "So they must.  And so you are here.  Tell me, Bard, heir of Girion, what do you desire of me?"

That was a dangerous question if ever there was one.  Bard's eyes slid down the King's slender form without consent but he mastered himself immediately.  "You were also told of my lineage?" he asked tonelessly, not knowing how he felt about that.

"I need no one to tell me what is evident with my own eyes." Thranduil made a slight dismissive gesture with his hand, as if the idea were unworthy of him.  "No one could mistake you.  You have Girion's bearing."

He spoke with the confidence of one who had met Girion, and Bard was viscerally reminded of Elven longevity.  He probably _had_ met Girion, and Bard wondered how he would compare.

"Girion may be my ancestor," Bard said, voice low, "But that trades for little here.  Girion was lord of Dale not Lake-town.  The Master rules here."

"Does he indeed?" There was something calculating in Thranduil's tone now.  Bard could see it in the sharp look in his icy blue eyes.  "Do you suggest I should parley with him then?"

Unease slithered into Bard's gut.  The idea of the simpering Master and the mighty Elvenking being within shouting distance turned his stomach.  He could only imagine what the Master would try to wheedle out of the Elves.  The Master would not seek for food and blankets.  No, he would want gold and trinkets.

Taking a sip from his glass, Thranduil watched Bard's reaction closely.  "Legolas reported your involvement in distributing my aid.  He commended your ability to keep the situation civil and orderly.  He said that all of your people listened to you.  None of my Elves have been able to say the same of your Master for he has not made his presence known."

There might've been a question in there; it wasn't quite clear.  Bard weighed his options.  The Master had skillfully talked himself out of the anger of the townspeople right after the attack, blaming the Dwarves for all their troubles.  The people were filled with anger but also with talk of gold from the Mountain. 

The situation was volatile.

The Elvenking was a powerful ally.  If the Master suspected Bard was courting Thranduil to undermine his rule, he would muster whatever tricks he had left to salvage his authority.  With the people already enflamed by the loss of their homes and by talk of the gold in the Mountain, Bard didn't doubt that the Master could indeed turn the situation to his favor.

But Bard absolutely could not let the Master near the Elvenking.  At best the Master would squander precious resources and at worst he would cost them the friendship of their most powerful neighbor.  It was crucial that they remained on Thranduil's good side.

"I speak for the Master," Bard finally said.  He had said as much for all his actions of late, though his actions had been entirely of his own making.  He had been fortunate so far that the Master seemed content to sulk on the beach and only make the occasional demand for his lackeys to bring him food and make him shelter.

He must know Thranduil was here though, and Bard wondered if his good luck would hold or if the Master would decide he'd sat idle too long.

Still watching him with those penetrating ice-eyes, Thranduil said, "Naturally, the heir of Girion would be his chief lieutenant."

Bard snorted before he could censor himself but he did not feel ashamed by that.  From the King's tone, he thought Thranduil knew very well Bard was no such thing.

"I do not know what tales you have heard or what it is you suspect, my Lord, but allow me to correct them.  When Smaug first attacked the Mountain, Girion's folk were ill-received in Lake-town.  I am nothing more than a simple guardsman.  That is all I have been ere now.  My concern is for my family and my people.  I can speak for them and for the Master.  That authority is mine now to treat with you if that is your will."

Thranduil's regard was cool but uninformative.  Bard met his eyes as calmly as he could and waited to see if Thranduil would deem him the insignificant lackey or an equal.

After a lengthy moment, Thranduil set down his glass and glided to his throne.  When he gestured towards a chair nearby, Bard quietly let out the breath he'd been holding and took the proffered seat.

"I had anticipated your arrival earlier," Thranduil noted.  "My son returned some time ago."

"Your son?" Bard asked.

"Legolas.  He is my younger son." Thranduil cocked his head to the side as he regarded Bard.  "You seem surprised."

Bard was surprised, though he didn't know why.  The Elvenking was often spoken of in Lake-town but not in a personal way.  He was little more than a symbol -- a mythical figure who had always been and would remain long after them.  He was not knowable, but he was familiar in the sense that he was out there somewhere and his people were close trading partners and often guests.

Bard had no idea what to expect when word arrived that the King had received his missive and was coming to their aid.  It wasn't that he thought the Elves wouldn't help, but he was pessimistic enough that he didn't count on it.  The need of his people was great, and he knew he was asking a lot.

That the King himself had arrived was indeed shocking.  No one knew what he looked like, but when he rode into town on his great black charger, there was no mistaking him.

It wasn't the gems on his fingers or the crown on his head that singled him out.  Tall and mighty, he exuded power in a way Bard had never witnessed before.  Here was a true King -- someone born to rule.  In his every look and gesture, he bore an inherent authority.

This was not surprising to Bard.  Nothing less would do justice to the mighty Elvenking of legend.  What Bard had not been prepared for was how beautiful the King was.  Golden-haired, statuesque, ethereal, Thranduil stood out among even the beautiful Elves.

Bard's surprise at the King's beauty was rooted in the silence that preceded it.  It might not have been politically expedient to extol the beauty of the King, but surely there was little harm in it either.  Surely Bard could not be the only one to think Thranduil was the most beautiful Elf he'd ever seen.

Why no one had mentioned it before now baffled Bard.

His current surprise, though, was rooted in something completely different.  If word of Thranduil's beauty did not stray beyond Mirkwood, any mention of a family was even less well known.

Bard didn't know why the idea that Thranduil had a family was so surprising to him.  Why shouldn't he?  Why shouldn't all the Elves?

And yet, seeing the mythic legend before him -- seeing Thranduil sitting straight and still like an ancient work of art brought to life -- Bard had a terrible time trying to picture him doing the mundane things that Bard was always grappling with. 

He couldn't picture Thranduil chasing after a toddler who had decided clothes were optional for the day.  Or spending an hour coaxing a baby to eat mashed vegetables -- only to have her spit it up all over him an hour later.  Or catching the kids when they decided jumping off the roof into the lake was a great idea.

But then, Bard couldn't really picture the merry Elf who'd just helped him distribute food doing anything his kids had done either.  He couldn't picture Elves as children at all.

Feeling Thranduil's intense gaze upon him, Bard spoke hastily so as not to cause offense.  "I, um . . . That is, your family is not much spoken of here."

Thranduil's expression remained inscrutable, but Bard sensed that the Elvenking knew there was more to it than that.

But all he said was, "I have two sons: Legolas, whom you've met, and Seledhel, my heir.  He stayed behind to rule in my stead."

"Huh," was all Bard had to say to that.  With a shrug, he said, "I've three kids myself: two girls and a boy.  That was why I was delayed in coming here tonight.   I had to make a detour to check on my children."

"Have you no one to aid you in their care?" For the first time, Thranduil sounded surprised.  "Is your wife not available?"

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Bard muttered, "She's, um, she's no longer with us."  When he noted Thranduil's look, he quickly reassured, "It wasn't the dragon.  She died . . . It was long ago."

"I am sorry to hear that," Thranduil said, his tone perfectly neutral.  "And there is no one else?"

Looking into his glass, Bard simply shook his head.  The only family they'd had was his wife's doddering old uncle and he'd just died in the dragon attack.  There was literally no one but him now, not that Olavi had ever been much use.

At least Sigrid was old enough now to mind her siblings.

"I, uh, I had a chance to speak with your son this afternoon," Bard said, wanting to change topics.  "When I complimented him on the speed of your arrival, he informed me that my message found you already heading towards Erebor.  I admit to some surprise.  I had not thought you would find interest in the Mountain."

Thranduil's response was not immediate.  Bard had an idea that this might be a delicate topic but he wanted to know where Thranduil stood so he could figure out where his own people fit in.

"Do you know what Smaug was?" Thranduil suddenly said.

Frowning, Bard warily said, "A dragon?"

He was not surprised that this was not the answer the Elf sought.  Standing up to retrieve the glass he'd set upon the table, Thranduil said, "Terrible though he was, Smaug was balance.  He was stability.  He was a danger to all equally.  Now that he is gone, what do you suppose will happen?"

Bard's frown deepened but he did not venture to answer this time, which was just as well as Thranduil did not seem to need his response.

"The vast wealth of Erebor is legendary.  Rumor of it has traveled to corners of this world you have never even heard of.  It was that which brought Smaug to our doorstep, but he was hardly the only one to hear of it.  Nor is the rumor forgotten.  Word of Smaug's death has already traveled beyond the Hithaeglir in the West and to Dorwinion in the South and doubtless to the Emyn Engrin in the East."

Taking a sip from his glass, Thranduil watched Bard.  Bard felt the weight of those exotic blue eyes to the depths of his soul and he shivered again, reminded of the last time he had stared into the eyes of something so ancient and powerful.

It was all he could do not to look away.

"Can you picture how this news has been met?" Thranduil continued.  "How many ears have heard that Smaug is dead?  How many minds remember the wealth he guarded?  And, now, all those people imagining that wealth lying unprotected.  All those people thinking that only they remember the wealth."

Finally seeing what Thranduil was driving at, Bard felt his stomach drop.  "There will be thousands coming."

Thranduil nodded calmly.  "Perhaps even more.  Some may wish only for a handful, thinking it unlikely to be missed.  Some may be more greedy and desire enough for an entire nation.  Some, like yourself, have a rightful claim to the treasure and will come to exert their rightful due--"

Without thinking, Bard interrupted, "I know that the Master hinted strongly that Lake-town should not be forgotten when Thorin returned to the Mountain but I do not think anything was agreed upon.  And I know that many of my people are anxious to go to the Mountain and take some treasure as recompense for our losses -- and I agree that this seems only fair -- but I cannot say we have a rightful claim to it."

"Then you are in error," Thranduil said placidly.  "Smaug plundered the wealth of Dale as thoroughly as he did the wealth of Erebor, and in that hoard in the Mountain is all that remains from Dale's treasures.  They do not belong to the Dwarves.  You are Girion's heir.  _You_ have the _right_ to those jewels before any other."

Bard had never considered this before.  It was so removed from his everyday life that he found it difficult to see himself as the rightful heir to a large inheritance.  No one in his family ever spoke of what was lost in Dale.  There had never been hope of recovery -- of Dale rebuilt.

Something stirred in Bard at the idea though.  It was the same thing he'd felt when the people had proclaimed him king on the shore the night of the dragon's attack.  Bard didn't think of himself as king-material.  But the idea of returning to his homeland -- of Dale rebuilt . . .

Bard had never been to Dale.  It was little more than a pile of ruins now.  Its people were Lake-men now.  Its culture slipped away like sand.  There was no reason to feel sentimental about Dale and what was lost.

And yet the idea wouldn't leave Bard.

He couldn't think of that now.  "And do you have a rightful claim as well?"

"Hm, that is a debatable point," Thranduil said.  "I imagine it would depend upon whom you ask.  I will not deny that I greatly admire beautiful jewelry and works of skill.  I have a particular fondness for emeralds.  Should I arrive at the Mountain before any others, I could claim the right of physical ownership, which would allow me some say in the distribution of the treasure and I might perhaps have grounds to keep some for myself."

"So, you brought an army to take the treasure?" Bard surmised.  He had heard the wealth of Erebor was vast; it might indeed take an entire army to haul it out of the Mountain.  He had no opinion on Thranduil's motives.  Thranduil and his Elves had been instrumental in the survival of the region after the dragon came.  Why shouldn't they have a share?

But Thranduil shook his head.  "I would not deny that it would give me pleasure to keep a share of the treasure for myself, but that is not why my army is on the march.  As I said, Erebor will attract all sorts of characters, many likely to be unsavory in nature.  Erebor is a fortress.  She is also the head of the Celeduin River; her waters are crucial for the health of your lake.  The security of this entire region depends upon Erebor being in the hands of an ally.  Were a band of thieves able to infiltrate that Mountain, shore up the exits, and plunder the armory, the ensuing conflict over the treasure could last for centuries."

Gliding back to his chair as he spoke, Thranduil continued, "Such a conflict would substantially weaken this entire region.  We would spend all of our resources protecting our own borders or trying to bring the thieves to heel.  I have no intention of letting that happen.  I have brought an army with size and strength enough to rival Smaug in terms of deterrent.  Those who have cast longing looks towards the Mountain but stayed their covetous hands because of the dragon will be equally reluctant to take on my army.  It will greatly reduce the number of scavengers and remind all else who would seek the treasure just what kind of neighbors Erebor has.  I also intend to have some say in the occupation of the Mountain.  The treasure was the reason the dragon came, and, as I said, the Mountain is strategically located.  I have now an opportunity to determine who my neighbor will be and I intend to take that opportunity."

His voice remained calm and cool, his expression inscrutable.  Bard took another sip of the King's rich wine, his mind whirling with all the aspects of Smaug's death that Thranduil had considered and he hadn't.  But Thranduil was right.  Bard had seen it on a smaller scale when someone had something extra to give out.  People would descend on it like dogs, all propriety and dignity lost.

No, Thranduil was right to be worried.  With as much wealth as Erebor was rumored to have, there was no telling what people would risk for just a handful.  Only the might of a nation could keep order.

Bard was suddenly very glad Thranduil and his Elves were his neighbors.

"It is not only Erebor that is my concern," Thranduil continued.  "Nor am I aiding you out of the goodness of my heart."

"Yes, we must speak of terms," Bard said, setting his glass on the nearby table.  He was anxious to know what the King desired of them.  Thranduil had been generous, and Bard had no reason to anticipate that would change, but he liked to know upfront what to expect.  The King was certainly entitled to something from them but Bard hated the nebulous state of being indebted without a contract.

"Tell me the state of your people," Thranduil commanded.

Stroking his chin, Bard said, "Lake-town has burned to the waterline and the pilings have been upended by the weight of the buildings falling onto them.  There is little of anything that can be salvaged and little appetite among my people to rebuild right where the dragon fell."

"That is understandable," Thranduil said.

"All things considered, we have been lucky.  I know I don't feel that way but, well, our pastures, fields, and woods were not burned.  Our cattle live and most of our boats are undamaged.  And, most importantly, I estimate that about three-quarters of our people survived the dragon's onslaught.  I do not think our situation is completely hopeless."

Clearly hearing the hesitation in his voice, Thranduil prompted, "But?"

"But our immediate situation is grave.  Much of our food had already been harvested and stored in the town.  Our people are cold and wet with no shelter.  Many froze the night of the dragon's attack and died.  It rained hard the last two nights, and most of my people were left out in the elements.  Already sickness has taken hold.  It will take a great effort to bring the people through this coming winter.  If we can do that, I think we have a good chance of recovering."

"So, your only need is help this winter?"

"Well . . . Obviously we would be happy with a great deal more.  We have always been a hardy people.  Independent.  We will endure what we must endure.  But, even if we can stave off any more deaths this coming winter, we will be stretched very thin next spring.  We never had an excess of labor.  It will be difficult to tend our fields and livestock and rebuild our town at the same time, not to mention replenish all the supplies we need to thrive as a people.  The challenges before my people are numerous."

Apparently taking a moment to consider his words, Thranduil's answer was not immediate.  Bard did his best not to feel anxious.  He firmly reminded himself that Elves ran on their own time and he could not judge this meeting as he would among Men.

"Tell me, Bard, son of Brodd, what is the most you would desire.  Think not of likelihoods and propriety; I have no time for that.  I would hear the things you are too well-mannered to ask for."

This seemed like a terrible trap, but Bard could appreciate Thranduil's position.  Bard momentarily hesitated but he decided he would have to take Thranduil at his word.

"Well, food and shelter first.  If we could replenish our supplies to last us for more than a year, that would help greatly.  There is little time to rebuild the entire city right now, but there is some time before winter impedes construction.  I don't know what could be built in that time, but any shelter we build now is a shelter we don't have to build in spring.  We need clothes and medicine.  I think extra leeches and craftsmen would be helpful for the winter.  Tools, raw materials, everything for daily life -- almost nothing survived the blaze."

Seeing Thranduil's utterly blank face, Bard knew he wasn't giving him what he wanted.  Boldly, Bard said, "I suppose if we could have anything, we would have your aid to rebuild Lake-town as soon as is practical."

"Only Lake-town?"

Having felt overbold already, Bard could only stare at Thranduil in surprise.  The Elf leaned forward slightly, an intent look in his starlit eyes.  "Would you not also like to rebuild Dale?  Your people are homeless, and Smaug is now dead.  If you must rebuild, is there any real difference between Lake-town and Dale?  Are not the needs of either settlement basically the same to you?  And yet, should Dale rise again, the profit would be great indeed.  Do you not desire that?"

Something in Thranduil's tone made Bard think this was no mere idle speculation.  Eyes narrowing, he did not mince words.  "What is it you desire, my Lord?"

Thranduil did not reply immediately.  His unearthly gaze remained fixed on Bard, who felt like his soul was being weighed.  But Bard stared back challengingly, unwilling to be led by his nose.

After a lengthy pause, Thranduil gave a little nod to Bard, as if in appreciation of the challenge he saw there.

"As I have said, I am not here out of some abundance of generosity.  I would not deny a people food and clothing, but I would not rebuild Erebor if the Dwarves asked me to," he said bluntly.  "But I will help you rebuild Esgaroth.  I would help you rebuild Dale too."

Shocked by this news, Bard could only dumbly say, "My Lord?"

Once again, Thranduil stood and gracefully glided around the table.  With a flick of his finger, he bid Bard to join him.

"I have an interest in seeing Esgaroth and Dale rebuilt.  I have an interest in having a strong contingent of Mannish communities near my own kingdom."

So saying, he pointed an elegant finger towards his realm and drew his fingertip along the lines of the map depicting the Forest River.   "Darkness has lingered in the southern reaches of Eryn Galen for too long now.  I would have a buffer between it and my people.  But, more than that, I would have strong allies to call upon in times of war."

Feeling another shudder running up his spine, Bard frowned at the map.  "You expect a war?"

"Not today, not tomorrow, perhaps not in a hundred years -- but, yes, I do expect war."  Thranduil's tone was still more monotone than anything else but there was a biting edge to it now.  His icy eyes had begun to burn as he continued to focus on the map.  "There are things in this world that you have no knowledge of -- things left to linger in shadows long forgotten.  But I remember them.  My people suffered terribly from that darkness and I would not see us so ill-prepared a second time."

Turning his full attention back to Bard, it was all Bard could do not to step back.  Thranduil's expression was stony but his eyes blazed with emotion.

"Esgaroth alone has proven insufficient," he said, voice once again coolly neutral.  "It is a necessary settlement for trade and commerce.  The entire region is enriched by having such a hub for goods to travel through.  Its placement on the lake greatly impacts its ability to perform so well.  But, Esgaroth is a city of merchants and money-counters.  It is not a city for war."

Finally releasing Bard from his gaze, Thranduil looked down at the map again and laid his fingertip on the symbol for Dale.

"Dale, in contrast, was a true kingdom.  Markets were not its only concern.  Strong warriors were bred there.  The pastime of war was taught and prepared for as an acceptable part of the culture -- as it is in many kingdoms.  It was more than the handful of guards who keep peace in Esgaroth, and that is what I need."

Once again turning to Bard, Thranduil said, "I need a strong population of Men to draw soldiers from when war finally comes.  Now that the dragon is dead, this land will feed thousands with ease.  I would see Dale renewed as another stronghold against the encroaching darkness."

Bard looked down at the map, needing a moment to marshal his thoughts.  He didn't know what he felt about what he was hearing.

That part of him that had stirred when the people declared him king at the shoreside poked him a little harder.  He already liked the idea of rebuilding Dale, and the idea that the Elvenking strongly supported him made the idea that much more appealing.

But talk of an encroaching darkness twisted his stomach.  Bard could appreciate Thranduil's desires.  He himself was a pessimistic man.  He had often petitioned the Master to increase the guard in preparation for all sorts of imagined perils.  No, he had no problem with the idea of rebuilding a fortified city.

But his pessimistic side did not always touch with reality.  Often the things he feared never came to pass.  He felt better to fletch the extra arrow, to save the extra coin, lay aside an extra bag of grain, but even Bard the Grim hoped that he would not need them.

Thranduil was a powerful Elf.  If he feared something, it was likely with more cause than Bard's weather-worries.  But Bard was very aware that Elves could afford to take the long view of things.  This was a perfect time to rebuild Dale, just as Thranduil said.  Bard's people had no attachments left; they were much more likely to cut ties and undergo the difficult process of removing to Dale.

It could be centuries -- perhaps millennia -- until the things that haunted the Elvenking would come to pass.

And yet, Smaug's burning gaze settled before Bard's mind.  He again felt the oily evil seeping over him and he shivered again.

He looked up to meet Thranduil's gaze, which felt cool like ice and sent warmth through him -- an exact counter to the remembered dragon's poisoned gaze.

"I . . ." Bard cleared his throat.  "I, um, I would like to see Dale rebuilt, but I do not know what appetite there is among my people for that.  We have just lost our home and many we love.  It is a daunting enterprise."

"It is at that." Thranduil pursed his lips in thought.  After a moment, he seemed to have reached some decision and said, "Labor I can give you.  My people have also laid aside enough food to help you ward off starvation.  And certainly you may have all the medicine we have, though it may be little.  But even my resources are insufficient to rebuild either Lake-town or Dale.  You will have need of many raw materials that only the southern supply lines can deliver."

His long finger slid down the Celduin and on towards Dorwinion.  "I am confident that our kin in Dorwinion and the towns south of here have what you seek but you will need gold to buy all you need.  Fortunately for you, there is gold enough for your needs."

Bard's eyebrows lifted in surprise, "You think we should take the treasure in the Mountain?"

"And why should you not?  You have a right to it, Bard, son of Brodd," Thranduil reminded.  "That treasure is as much yours as anyone's, and your need is great."

"Yes, but the Dwarves will take exception--"

"If not for those Dwarves," Thranduil interrupted sternly, "your town would not be in ruins and you would not find yourself in this situation to begin with."

Bard felt conflicted.  It did feel a little like thieving to go up to the Mountain and simply take whatever he liked.  But he couldn't deny that his people really did need something to trade.  All of Lake-town's wealth now lay at the bottom of the lake.  The Lake-men were penniless.

He still didn't know what to make of his own supposed claim.

Perhaps seeing his conflict, Thranduil softened.  "I can see that you are a fair man, Bard.  I have no doubt you will not take more than your fair share.  If you fear for the conduct of your men, I can give you a contingent of my own to help keep the peace.  You needn't even be publicly associated with them if you find that politically expedient."

"And what exactly is a 'fair share', my Lord." Bard's tone was tinged with suspicion, though he was beginning to warm to the idea.  "Enough to rebuild Lake-town, or Lake-town and Dale."

Thranduil smiled.  Though it was not particularly warm or friendly, the lifting of his somber air even a little lit his entire being.  "I can see I have not completely convinced you of my cause.  But I have only spoken of my own agenda.  I assure you there are many benefits to your people should Dale rise anew.  Agree with me to go to the Mountain with your best men, and I will list them for you.  If you do not find my arguments compelling, it is in your hands then and I will abide by your decision.  I promise not to withdraw my support.  I do not desire to rule Men or concern myself in their affairs.  But I would see Men reestablished all the same."

Bard considered the proposal.  It felt like no decision at all though.  His people were clamoring to take the treasure, and he had no hope of restraining them.  He knew that if they took the entire treasure, there would be problems once the Dwarves heard of it, and if he didn't intervene, that was exactly what his people would take.

No, there was no choice.  Thranduil had never broken his word in his dealings with the Lake-men, and looking into his icy eyes now, Bard felt assured he wouldn't start now.  It would give Thranduil more time to convince Bard to accept a plan he already desired but that was a small matter.

Nodding, Bard finally said, "Very well, my Lord.  I find your proposal sound."

"Excellent," Thranduil said, not sounding as if he doubted Bard would agree.  He immediately became business-like, grabbing a piece of parchment and a well of ink to begin writing.

"Naturally, we shall have to determine the management of the people here in the meantime before we can depart.  Building shelter is also an immediate need, and I can leave some of my host to help in that.  Once you have determined it, I will need numbers on who will remain here and who will go so I can distribute rations accordingly."

He appeared ready to continue on, and Bard steadied himself for a long night.  But another shiver raced through him and this time it didn't stop.  He could feel it working its way around his limbs, tracing a line under his skin to every patch of him it could.

This time, his shivering did not go unnoticed.  "You are cold, Adan?" Thranduil asked.

Since there was little point in trying to deny it now, Bard rubbed his hands together to get some warmth in them.

"It's nothing," he said gruffly.  It was plenty warm in the tent and he was sure that the shivers would pass soon enough.

Thranduil did not return to his work though.  After a moment of studying Bard, he set his quill in its holder and straightened.

"You said some of your people have frozen to death," he said.

Seeing where he was going, Bard snorted.  "It's nothing so serious; I assure you."

"All the same, the dragon has only been dead a week.  No doubt you have been in the same clothes that entire time and the recent rain would not have helped."  Thranduil turned towards the curtained area and retrieved something.

Bard did not see, eyes darting away in his embarrassment.  He didn't feel he should be embarrassed -- there were no other clothes for anyone; Thranduil certainly couldn't expect him to have come in his holiday best when the entire reason for the Elf's being here was the desperation of their situation -- but Bard suddenly felt the disparity of their positions.

Thranduil was a great Elvenking.  Bard was dressed in little more than rags, and yes, they were a bit musty from his dunk in the lake and still wet from last night's rain.  He hadn't had a glass to trim his beard or even a clean rag to wash his face.

Bard did not think less of his people for their current privation nor did he think less of himself for not having what was impossible to get.  But he couldn't help feeling very out of place here.

"Here," Thranduil said, grabbing Bard's attention back to him.  In his hands was a beautiful cloak.  It appeared to be black velvet, trimmed with gray fur.  It looked deliciously warm but also far too valuable to be around Bard's rude frame.

"I couldn't possibly--"

"Nonsense," Thranduil dismissed.  Seeing Bard make no movement to take the cloak, Thranduil set to putting it on Bard himself.  He moved with economical purpose and Bard had no idea how to refuse him.

His shivering stopped as soon as the cloak was wrapped around him.  Or, perhaps Bard should amend, his shivering from the cold stopped.  Having Thranduil come so close to him that Bard could smell his woodsy scent, could feel the touch of fingers as they draped the heavy fabric around his shoulders -- well, he had new shivers running through him.

Bard swallowed, firmly exerting his self-control while Thranduil brushed out imaginary wrinkles from the expensive cloak.  That he was basically stroking Bard's chest in the process did not seem to bother the Elf, and Bard tried not to focus on the impersonal touch.

"It is late," Thranduil noted, finally stepping back.  "I have kept you far too long as it is.  You should retire for the night and we can continue this again in the morning."

"My Lord, I --"

Making a dismissive gesture, Thranduil did not let him finish, "You can return the cloak in the morning.  I have the answer I need for now.  Return to your family and sleep well.  There is no need for haste."

Bard felt strongly that this was definitely something he should not do.  But Thranduil had hit his weakness.  Bard still felt the unsettling weight of fear in his belly that had grabbed hold of him during the dragon's attack -- that fear of not knowing if his children were safe.

It was still too soon.  He had yet to expunge this feeling, and so he had no wherewithal to refuse the Elvenking.

"Thank you, my Lord.  I shall see you again in the morning."

Thranduil was again busy writing and only waved Bard away.

Amused despite himself, Bard pulled the cloak tighter around himself and headed out into the night.


	3. Chapter Two

After providing Bilbo with an escort back towards the Mountain, Thranduil stood beside Bard and bid the Hobbit farewell.  Thranduil felt a heavy weight on his heart though as he watched the small creature disappear into the dark.

It was noble what the Hobbit was trying to do but Thranduil anticipated trouble come the morrow.  He doubted very much that Bilbo truly understood the danger he was placing himself in.

Still, there was nothing he could do.  He had given his warning; he could not command the Hobbit to stay, though he wished he had.  He admired Bilbo's loyalty to his friends, and he hoped that the Dwarves would prove worthy of it.

He feared that would not be the case.

Unsettled and disliking the feeling, Thranduil turned back to his tent and slipped inside.  He headed to the field table where the reports he and Bard had been discussing when news of Bilbo's presence had reached them were still waiting.

Bilbo's extraordinary offer had certainly changed the dynamics of their situation and they would have to figure out how best to utilize this sudden advantage.  The news of Dáin's coming arrival was another element that must be considered as well.

Thranduil did not call for Bard, certain that he would wander back at his leisure.  Eventually Bard did so.  He did not speak though, and when Thranduil finally turned to see what had absorbed the Man's thoughts, he saw that Bard was looking at the Arkenstone in his hand.

For a moment Thranduil's attention was also arrested.  Rumor of the Arkenstone's beauty had spread even faster than that of the treasure hoard, though Thranduil had never before had the chance to see the gem.  It certainly lived up to its praises.

Without meaning to, Thranduil's gaze went to the opening of the tent where a bit of sky could be seen.  It was too late for Eärendil to be out but seeing the Arkenstone, Thranduil's thoughts went to the Silmaril sailing the skies.  He had no doubt that the Silmarils were more wondrous by far than this fair stone.  They had been crafted by purpose, rather than mined, and they carried the sacred light of the Two Trees inside them.

But that knowledge did not dim the Arkenstone's loveliness.  If this stone was so beautiful, then Thranduil found he could not imagine how fair the Silmarils must be.  He found all the struggles on behalf of those fair gems a little easier to understand now.

He had the sudden desire to have Elrond by his side.  Elrond had seen a Silmaril; Thranduil wondered how the Arkenstone compared.

All of this was a mere flight of fancy and Thranduil indulged in it for only a moment.  He said nothing to Bard, understanding the fascination of the gem and allowing him what time he wished to admire it.

Thranduil turned back to the table and drew out the large map from under the reports of their two armies so that he could have a better look at the terrain Dáin Ironfoot would be traversing and what direction he was likely to come from.

Unexpectedly his view was obstructed when Bard set the Arkenstone down on the map and said, "Here."

Thranduil canted an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

"You should have it," Bard said.  "You should treat with Thorin."

"I most assuredly should not."  Thranduil's firm refusal clearly confused Bard but, as was his wont, he did not say anything further.  Thranduil had discovered that about him.  He spoke his mind when he had something to say but if he was in doubt, he often held his tongue and waited for Thranduil to elaborate or not as he chose.

Gently touching Bard's elbow, Thranduil drew him to a chair and sat opposite him.  Having an idea of what Bard might be thinking, Thranduil said, "The claim is yours, Master Bard.  _You_ must be the one to speak with Thorin.  We have discussed this."

And they had.

When they had discovered that Thorin and his Company were not dead, Thranduil had counseled Bard on the manner of parlay he should engage in but he knew that he himself should not be present.  While he did not for a moment regret imprisoning the Dwarves, he was sure Thorin thought otherwise.

Thranduil had sent an envoy with Bard to the parlay so that it was made clear he would back Bard.  He could not pretend that Elves weren't there after all, and he hoped that his endorsement of Bard would put any claims of legitimacy as Girion's heir to rest and entice Thorin to consider the ramifications of denying Bard's claim.

Dwarves did not grow their own food and there was not nearly enough game on the Mountain or in the river to feed a population of Dwarves.  If Thorin were wise, he would not want to alienate Men, who controlled the trading supply lines and the food supply for the region.

Thorin was clearly not in a reasonable mood though, and Thranduil was wary of leaving Bard to deal with the Dwarf on his own.

"You desire some of the treasure," Bard said.  "You should have the Arkenstone.  It would let you ask for a portion of the treasure for yourself and your people."

The naïve offer made Thranduil smile faintly.  "That is very ill-advised.  I have no claim on the treasure now that Thorin lives and has taken possession of it.  There is nothing of mine in the Mountain to barter for.  Were I to take the Arkenstone to Thorin, he would rightly see it as being held for ransom.  No, you must take it, Master Bard.  Thorin is holding hostage what belongs to you.  You holding the Arkenstone would only put you on equal footing then, though I am sure he will not see it as such.  It is the truth though."

Bard looked faintly troubled, glancing to the glowing stone.  Curious about his thoughts, Thranduil waited quietly to hear what he would say.

"You have no claim on the treasure," Bard said slowly, a deep frown furrowing his brow, "And yet you are still here."

"As I said when we first met, I have an interest in seeing you reestablish Dale and rebuild Esgaroth." Thranduil's tone was offhanded.

Bard's own tone was guarded.  "So . . . you only remain to help us?"

"Do you wish that I should leave?" Thranduil could see the argument against him.  Thorin reacted negatively to the presence of the Elves and he had refused to speak further with Bard so long as Thranduil remained.  Thranduil would not fault Bard if he thought he might get further with Thorin by acceding to his wishes.

Thranduil personally thought Bard giving into Thorin was unwise from a negotiating standpoint.  It would only embolden Thorin to demand more concessions and whittle away what he would give to Bard.  But it was possible that Thranduil was wrong.  Perhaps without the Elvish army at his doorstep, Thorin would feel less defensive and become more generous.

Thranduil highly doubted it.

Across from him, Bard shook his head.  "Of course not.  I . . . I have found your advice to be invaluable.  I do not know much of Dwarves but they are proving to be as stubborn as you said they would be.  I doubt you leaving would change that and I'm . . . I'm not the strongest negotiator."

"You give yourself far too little credit, my friend," Thranduil said warmly.  "You are doing very well."

Bard snorted in clear disbelief, but Thranduil would not let that stand.  Over the last two weeks, he had come to like Bard exceedingly well.  Thranduil did not have many friends but he would be happy to name Bard one of them, and he hoped that if Bard did not see him in the same light yet, that he would eventually come to do so.

"No, you are," Thranduil insisted.  "I know the conventions of national dialogue may seem strange and foreign to you but I have not found you ill-equipped for the task.  You are well versed in the contracts that are daily written in Esgaroth.  Those are not so very different from what you engage in now, and where they diverge, you are quick to note it and ask for help if you think it necessary.  You have applied all my suggestions judiciously and competently.  I deem you will need very little practice before it will be second nature to you."

"Practice." Standing, Bard walked to the tent's entrance and looked out to the Mountain.  He was silent for a long minute, and Thranduil grew uneasy.

He noticed how haggard and pale Bard looked.  There was a tired air that hung around the Man.  Thranduil had noted it when they had first met.  Given the circumstances he had found at the lakeshore, Thranduil had not found it terribly surprising that Bard should be weary and worn.  It was a little surprising that Bard had not improved much in the two weeks since then, but Thranduil did allow that circumstances had not improved significantly either.  Bard had enough food and a warm tent of his own but he still bore the burden of his people on his shoulders, and he was separated from his children.

Thranduil knew that weighed heaviest upon him.

Finally Bard let out a sigh and turned back to Thranduil.  "If you have your way, Dale will be rebuilt and I shall be king.  Is that not what you desire?"

"It is." Thranduil saw no point in denying it.  From what he'd seen over the last few weeks, he thought Bard would make an excellent king, though he had yet to convince him of that.

"And if it is so, then I shall live on the doorstep of Erebor," Bard said.

"Ahh."  Thranduil could see where this was going now.  It was no wonder Bard looked weary.  "I would not hold our current dealings as an irrevocable sign of things to come.  It will undoubtedly set a tone for how things will go in the future but it needn't mean that you will forever be committed to conflict and bargaining.  Once Dale and Esgaroth are rebuilt, your position will be different than it is now.  The same will be true once Erebor gathers in all of her wandering Dwarves.  Neither you nor Thorin will have the same goals and needs as you do in this moment.  Who is to say how that will change things?  But take heart.  Have you not spent all the years of your life already in dispute with the Master on the Lake?  And none the worse for it, is seems."

"The trials of the Master are something I know," Bard said, though his grim frown had lessened.

Finally getting to his feet and joining Bard near the tent's entrance, Thranduil said, "And so it will be with Thorin.  Dwarves are obstinate and proud but what is occurring now is an extreme.  You will learn their ways and they will learn yours.  It is in their interests too that Dale and Esgaroth are rebuilt.  They need the food your people grow and the trading network Men have maintained to be able to sustain their population in that Mountain.  You also represent a market to sell their goods.  There are many benefits for Dwarves in friendship with Men.  It seems to me that Dwarves generally find enjoyment in the company of Men.  Girion and his forefathers lived in peace and plenty in Dale.  So it shall be for you.  I anticipate that future disagreements between your kingdoms will amount to no more than our own disagreements over river-tolls.  Do not let yourself be troubled about how the future will shape."

Bard considered that for a moment before offering Thranduil a rueful smile.  "I suppose I cannot help my nature.  I have ever been a foreteller of troubles."

Thranduil smiled in turn.  "I had noticed that of you.  I am sure it will serve you well.  But, right now, I think we have enough troubles that borrowing from the future seems overly heroic."

His words had the intended effect.  Bard grinned, and Thranduil was pleased.  Bard was clearly a dour man by nature so it was doubly satisfying when Thranduil managed to coax a smile out of him.

"Shall we get back to the task at hand?" Thranduil offered.  He gestured towards the Arkenstone, clearly intending that Bard should pocket the gem.

Bard did step up to the table but he did not move to take the gem.  Thranduil gave him a curious look, and when Bard noted it, he said, "It seems wrong that you do not take it."

"Why?"

Bard clearly struggled to answer Thranduil's question.  "It . . . Well, it's very fine . . ."

"So, it is," Thranduil said when Bard trailed off and showed no sign of continuing.  "I do not see why that should preclude it from your keeping."

"Still . . . It just seems . . . Well, it seems Elvish and--"

If Thranduil were prone to such things, he would have snorted in amusement.  But he wasn't, so he didn't.  But he did say firmly, "I assure you it is not Elvish.  Nor is it wise for the Elves to have it."  Thranduil doubted that was what truly bothered Bard but he was getting the feeling that Bard did not know himself so Thranduil said, "Take it so that we may discuss this news of Dáin.  An army of Dwarves is a concerning thought."

After another telling hesitation, Bard finally reached out and took the Arkenstone.  Thranduil couldn't help focusing on the sparking gem in that big square hand.  It was small enough that Bard could hold it one-handed but he could not close his hand around it.  The sight of the brilliant jewel -- a true King's Jewel -- in the rough, workman hands of the Dragonslayer made Thranduil swallow and quickly look away.

It was not the first time Bard's physicality had caught his attention.  His shapeless clothes could not completely hide the muscled frame beneath.  More than once Bard had shifted in such a way that the material stretched taut.  Though he had yet to divest himself in comfort, the cloth of his raiment was thread-worn to the point that when stretched, it left nothing to the imagination and Thranduil could clearly see the definition of muscle of his chest and broad back.

His hands captivated Thranduil.  Long fingered, they were nonetheless square and solid.  They looked like strong, capable hands.  Bard made anything he held look delicate in comparison.  Everyday objects Thranduil had used a thousand times became a fascination when Bard held them, and Thranduil's thoughts had strayed more than once to imagine what the feel of those working hands would be.

Nor did his fascination end there.  Thranduil's eyes were often drawn to the long column of Bard's neck.  Completely covered otherwise, the exposed skin at his throat looked oddly vulnerable.  It didn't help that his shirt was torn slightly, deepening the V-cut so that his chest peeked out.

If Bard's eyes were not equally captivating, Thranduil might embarrass himself with distraction.

But Bard's eyes _were_ captivating.  Dark and deep, they gave away little of his thoughts and Thranduil wished to know what was hiding in their depths.  He felt he could spend forever trying to read them and be no closer to understanding than when he began.  And yet, when Bard laughed, his dark eyes lit up with honest emotion.

Nothing lit his eyes like talk of his children.  There was no attempt to conceal his honest affection for them.  When he spoke of them, the warmth in his eyes radiated through his whole being.

Thranduil could not help but respond with equal warmth.

"Will Dáin be such a problem?" Bard said, gruff voice recalling Thranduil's attention.  The Elvenking was glad of the distraction.

"There is no telling what Dwarves will do," Thranduil said.  He glanced over towards Bard and saw that the Arkenstone had finally been removed.  "Obviously we should anticipate the worst.  If Thorin's reaction is any guide, Dáin will respond to our presence with hostility and obstinacy."

"And our having the Arkenstone will only exacerbate the situation," Bard noted shrewdly.

"Undoubtedly."

Thranduil was about to ask Bard for a progress report on the weapons training of the Lake-men when he noticed a rather pronounced shudder run through his companion.

"You are shivering again," he noted tonelessly.  They had discussed this a handful of times over the last two weeks but Bard continued to deflect.  Now on the eve of a critical negotiation, Thranduil would no longer allow that to stand.

"It's noth-"

"Are you ill?" Thranduil interrupted.  He had straightened to give Bard his complete attention and his tone was implacable.  Bard looked uneasy under Thranduil's regard but he didn't quite break eye contact.

He must have seen that Thranduil would no longer accept his excuses -- or perhaps he saw the seriousness of the situation they now found themselves -- for he sighed and said, "It is likely.  I assure you I am fine for tomorrow.  I don't have a cough or fever or such.  My breathing is fine so far and my head is clear . . . But, yes, I likely have a cold.  I cannot shake a chill."

Pursing his lips, Thranduil did his best not to reveal his disquiet.  Every time he had noted Bard's shivering, a thread of warning crossed his heart that he could give no cause to.  It should be a relief to know Bard's situation was only a chill.

But sickness made Thranduil uneasy.  Intellectually he knew that Men often got sick and were none the worse for it.  But sickness was also the harbinger of death among Men, and that was a fact not easily ignored for an immortal Elf.

He did not like to think of his new friend being ill, but he trusted that Bard had evaluated the situation honestly.  Thranduil knew that Bard would never endanger his own people nor put himself in unnecessary risk.  He was ever mindful that he was the sole parent to his children and the only person capable of keeping his people together.  He would not shrink from danger on that account, but he was too responsible to seek it out.

If Bard thought himself impaired, he would be the first to say so -- Thranduil was certain of it.  Thranduil had only a general idea of how sickness affected Men but he knew that it was unpleasant and sometimes downright miserable.  He did not wish that for Bard either, and he wished he could will away the illness as easily as he could command his Elves.

He wished he could banish the unease from his heart.

As he could not, he turned to a more practical solution.

Without a word, Thranduil slid back the curtain blocking his simple bed from view.  Lying on it was a box.

"Galion just finished these today.  He had to guess at the measurements, of course, but he has always had a keen eye so I doubt not that they will be a good fit." So saying, Thranduil withdrew a blue coat and a gray shirt.

For two weeks the Elvenking had seen his friend shivering.  Thranduil had not thought illness was the cause.  As an Elf, he could not judge cold as humans understood it and all the Lake-men seemed ill-at-ease with the weather.

Thranduil had tried many times to gift Bard with his own spare cloaks and blankets.  But Bard would not accept anything of Thranduil's on a permanent basis and returned everything promptly.  He would not hear of anything more and now knowing him better, Thranduil knew the opulence of his own garments and the charity behind them clearly made him uncomfortable.

The obvious solution -- simpler threads and rude blankets -- was thwarted by Bard's over-generous spirit.  All such articles ended up in the hands of his men.  Thranduil was half-convinced that Bard delighted in foiling him or at least was intent on sabotaging his own health.

Thranduil had commissioned the coat -- warm and snug and durable the way only Elven magic could make it but without the trappings of elegance that Bard eschewed -- in a vain hope of finally remedying the problem.  He had only delayed in the implementation of the gift-giving as he tried to determine how best to give it so that it would be well-received.

Now that talk had turned to illness, Thranduil would not accept anything but his will in the matter be obeyed.

"My lord--" Bard predictably protested.

"Nay, I will not hear of it," Thranduil said sternly.  "You must take better care of your own health now.  Your people need your strength.  These have been made specifically for you and I insist that you wear them.  I would not see them on any other."

Thranduil planted himself firmly, wordlessly conveying his intention to remain unmoved until Bard had acquiesced to wearing the coat and done so immediately.  They would talk of no more business until Thranduil had been satisfied on the matter.

Bard protested more, of course, but Thranduil held firm.  Grumbling under his breath, Bard finally undid the belt at his waist and set it and his sword on the nearby table.  He then reached for the ties of his ratty coat.  As it slipped from his shoulders, Thranduil could see it was far too thin to be of any real use against the cold.  A sympathetic shiver ran through him at the idea of the cutting wind against such flimsy material.

Pulling his shirt free from his waistband, Bard did not hesitate to peel off his shirt, and suddenly Thranduil had the entire expanse of Bard's broad chest before him.  It was more than he'd bargained for.  The glimpses of his muscular frame afforded Thranduil by the Man's thin coat had not prepared Thranduil for the sight of all his strength unveiled.

Here was a body used to hard labor -- carved and molded from a lifetime of demanding work.  Arms sculpted from long hours honing his skill with the bow, stomach flat from too many lean years, skin still tan from the long summer's work beneath the sun -- it was all Thranduil could do to keep from reaching out to touch that oh-so-tempting sight before him.

Wordlessly, Thranduil handed over the gray shirt.  Bard quickly shrugged into it and Thranduil was ridiculously pleased that Galion again proved his superior skill.  He had guessed Bard perfectly, and the cut of the shirt fit as well as a second skin.

The concealing of all that bronze skin was enough to reassert Thranduil's control.  He allowed Bard to shrug into the coat on his own but the Elvenking permitted himself the luxury of fastening the ties.  It allowed him to step right next to Bard, to feel for a moment all that coiled strength beneath his fingertips.

Sadly, he had too much self-control to linger, and he soon stepped back to admire his friend in his new coat.

"Satisfied?" Bard said, his tone partially aggrieved but his expression embarrassed as he busied himself with belting his sword back into place and transferring the Arkenstone from his old coat to his new one.  It was an endearing look.

Thranduil took Bard's question as a challenge, and allowed himself to take his time studying the Man.  The coat wrapped tight around Bard and he was no longer shapeless.  The blue suited him immensely, the muted color more fitting than a more vibrant shade.  With his sword once again on his hip, he made a rather imposing figure.  It was the first time he looked the part that Thranduil could so easily see him filling.

He would make a splendid king.

"Yes.  Now, come stand by the fire while we figure out how best to greet the morrow."

Bard merely rolled his eyes at Thranduil but he obeyed.  In fact, he came to stand right next to the Elvenking so that Thranduil could feel the warmth of him.

It was more distracting than it had any right to be but Thranduil did not desire to move.  He reached for the map once more and they got to work.

  
**********************************

In his entire life, Bard had never felt as spent as he did now.  His muscles were screaming at him in exhaustion.  A myriad of sharp and throbbing aches vied for attention with every step he made.  His fingers felt numb and swollen; he'd had to pry them off the grip of his sword.  Dried blood itched from cuts both minor and severe.  His head felt like it had been split open from a blow he'd taken.

And he was freezing.

It was all he could do to keep one foot in front of the other.  Limping, he kept going though.  Working his way through the camp of his men, he checked on every one he could.  He conferred with the healers about the worst of the wounded, went over their late night defenses with his second-in-command, and secured supplies for those too weary or busy to do it themselves.

None of it seemed like enough.

The slaughter had been impressive.  Bard still couldn't believe he wasn't dead.  From his perch on the Eastern Spur of the Mountain, he'd had an excellent view of the battle.  He and the Elven archers who had joined his men had picked off goblins until their arrows had run out.  Even with that early respite, Bard had still had hours of hand-to-hand combat.

Wave after wave of goblins assaulted them.  It seemed never-ending, and Bard had given up all hope of victory.  Just surviving seemed like too much to hope for.

But here they were, and Bard was left feeling like he'd gotten off easy.  He was still up and moving and in roughly one piece.  That was much more than he could say for a good number of his people.

So, he jumped from one task to another.  Nothing was too small, not tonight.

Jittery and ill-at-ease, Bard could not be still.  Long after the sun had set and the world had quieted, he continued his rounds.  It just felt like the world was holding its breath, waiting to drop the next catastrophe on his head.

Unsure what to do with himself, Bard ended up wandering close to the Elven encampment.  It was not the first time he'd had business with the Elves since the end of the battle.  Thranduil's ranks were much better organized than Bard's.  Bard had only had a glimpse of their king in that time but it was enough to reassure himself that Thranduil had survived without serious injury.

The Elvenking had been very busy himself and Bard had seen no reason to bother him.

Now, though, even the Elven camp was quiet.  Their sentries noted him but said nothing, as usual.  A handful of Elves were settled around various campfires but the songs of mourning had muted and most of the Elves were not to be seen.

"Lord Bard."

Turning, Bard was surprised to see Thranduil coming his way.  He was no longer dressed in his magnificent armor but he looked no less imposing as he strode confidently to Bard's side.  Already shaky from exhaustion, it wouldn't have taken much to make Bard feel weak in the knees, but seeing Thranduil like this certainly sharpened the feeling.

"My Lord Thranduil," Bard said, inclining his head in greeting just as the tall Elf reached his side.  "Is anything amiss?"

"It is indeed." Thranduil's tone was stern, his expression grave.  Heart beginning to beat faster, Bard felt a certain aptness to news of more calamity even as he dreaded it.  His pessimistic nature poked him at the inevitability that a dragon and a war could not be the end of their troubles.

Thranduil interrupted Bard's thoughts as he reached out to touch Bard's forehead -- right where he'd been clocked by a lucky goblin.  He answered Bard's question with, "The night is almost half over and not only have you not gone to rest but it appears you have not had your wounds attended to."

The feel of the Elf's fingers on his forehead -- gentle though the touch was -- was like a brand of searing fire.  It set off another round of shivers through his body, and for the first time he felt the clamminess of illness.

Now understanding the Elf's mind and seeing that there was no new danger, Bard stepped back from his touch and scowled.  "There has been much to do and I--"

"And you are the leader of your people," Thranduil interrupted.  "It is paramount that you present an image of strength and wisdom that your people can take heart in.  Delaying your care beyond the immediate needs of the battle serves no good to anyone."

Unperturbed by Bard's retreat, the Elvenking gently took his arm with the clear intention of dragging Bard to get treatment.  Bard had no desire to be lectured by leeches -- or even to be _still_ so they could attend him -- but he knew with certainty that Thranduil would have his way and there was no point arguing with him.

If he were a grain less tired, he would still do it.  But he knew Thranduil was right and there was no excuse now not to look to his own wounds.  His shivering was worse now and his head was beginning to fog with the first signs of his cold.  He was going to be in a right state in a few days and he would need his strength.

So, he allowed Thranduil to walk him back to the Elvenking's tent.

Thranduil did not let go of his elbow, though Bard could easily have freed himself.  It was nice to have the connection.  Bard felt unsteady on his feet.  It was only his stubborn refusal not to fall that kept him from leaning on the Elf's support.  Now that he'd given into Thranduil, it was like his body finally had all the permission it wanted to rebel against the harsh treatment inflicted upon it during the battle and subsequent cleanup.

Bard had no idea why he was trying to uphold an image of strength with Thranduil.  He was pretty sure he looked like shit.

"Legolas," Thranduil said as they approached his tent.  Bard saw Thranduil's son sitting on a stone outcropping beside the tent, his weapons arrayed before him as he attended to their maintenance.  But he hopped to his feet at his father's call, offering Bard a friendly smile.

Thranduil said something in Elvish, and Legolas nodded and jogged away.  Before Bard could see where he was going, Thranduil indicated Bard should enter the tent.  The Elvenking turned briefly and ordered something in Elvish, which had his guards closing the tent off.

"It will be warm enough in here shortly," Thranduil said by way of explaining his guards' actions.

"I thought I was going to see a leech," Bard said.

"Are you hiding a more serious injury than I can see?" Thranduil's tone indicated he had already taken the correct measure of Bard's injuries.  Before Bard could respond, he continued, "There is no reason to trek you to the healers.  Nor to bother the injured there.  Legolas will bring the necessary materials, and I have had more than enough experience dressing wounds."

Thranduil's expression was perfectly neutral when he said this, and yet it gave Bard pause.  He wondered exactly what kinds of wounds Thranduil had had to tend to and in what circumstances.  He highly doubted the Elf would involve himself needlessly in healing if he did not have to.  Thranduil was no healer, and he would not insert himself unnecessarily in a profession beyond his scope.

But, as Bard was coming to understand, war demanded all sorts of strange things from a king.

Bard wasn't sure how he felt about Thranduil attending to his wounds but he wasn't sure what to say about it either.

"Sit down before you fall down," Thranduil said after there had been awkward silence for a minute.  More kindly, "You look as if you could fall asleep standing."

Bard snorted humorlessly.  "Maybe I could.  It's been a long day."

"So, it has.  But the first of many for you, I imagine."

Reminded of all that there was left to do to make Dale habitable and to see Lake-town through the winter, Bard simply sighed and finally took his usual seat beside Thranduil's throne.

Thranduil offered his own quiet smile.  "It will not be so bad.  Once we have settled things with the Dwarves, you will have a respite from politics for some time I would wager."

"You really think that things have changed?  That the Dwarves will deal reasonably with us now?" Bard could hear the dubiousness in his voice.

Pouring himself a glass of wine, Thranduil said, "My healers inform me that Thorin will not survive his wounds.  He has a day, possibly two, but unfortunately he will die."

"And then what?  Without a leader, who will speak for the Dwarves?  How will anything be decided?"

"Dáin will be king, I imagine.  Not that I can profess much knowledge of Dwarvish customs.  But, my people have seen Thorin in council with Dáin and another high-ranking Dwarf from Thorin's Company.  If Dáin is not to be king, I believe he knows who will be.  It will be settled shortly enough.  The Dwarves may be dispossessed but they still retain their laws and traditions.  A king will rise and we will conduct a settlement of grievances.  Then we will all be too busy attending to our own affairs for quarrels and strife to ignite so soon after the war."

Bard fervently hoped that was true.  For a long moment, there was silence as they waited for Legolas to return.  Feeling himself drift off, Bard sought for some topic to occupy his mind.

"Any word on Bilbo?"

"I am afraid not." Thranduil did not show much emotion but Bard saw the sadness in his eyes.  He wondered if that was because the Elf thought it likely the Hobbit was somewhere among the dead on the battlefield or he was simply sad on the Hobbit's behalf considering how things had turned out.

Bard felt a little low himself on that score.  Bilbo had done his honorable best and been cast out from his Company for his troubles.  Now, Thorin was on his deathbed and Bilbo could not be found.

The Hobbit's death would be but one among thousands but it felt a little bitter to think of his loss.  Bard was reminded a little of his children.  Not because of stature, but in the unfailing belief Bilbo had shown in his friends.  It made Bard ache to see his children -- to hold Tilda in his arms and see for himself that she and her siblings were alright.

Just then, a sliver of cool air hit Bard and made him aware of how nicely warm the tent was getting.  Shivering, he looked up in time to see Legolas slip in.  The Elf was holding a decent-sized pitcher and Bard noted that it was steaming.

"Ada-" Legolas began.

"In the basin, Legolas," Thranduil replied.

Bard watched with interest as Thranduil drew aside the curtain to the private part of the tent.  Beside the elegant Elven cot that served as the King's bed was a small sturdy table where a thick silver basin resided.  It looked heavy and solid and not easily moved.

Legolas poured the steaming liquid from the pitcher into the silver basin.  The liquid appeared to be no more than water, though Bard was close enough that he thought he might have smelled something faintly flowery when Legolas poured it.  The smell was soon enough gone so that Bard wasn't really sure he'd smelled anything at all.

When Legolas brought the now empty pitcher back to the table, Bard saw that Thranduil had not been idly watching his son as Bard had.  Instead, Thranduil had apparently retrieved a box and was even now setting it beside the pitcher on the table. 

"Crush two of these and place them in the water," Thranduil instructed his son as he handed him the box.  Legolas withdrew two slender leaves from the box and then turned to do as bid.

Bard did not have an opportunity to watch more as Thranduil was suddenly before him.  "Well, let's have off with your coat and see what the damage is."

Unaccountably, Bard felt disquiet at the idea of disrobing before the Elvenking.  Thranduil had already seen anything worth seeing when he'd given Bard the coat.  And Bard was not unduly modest -- certainly not to the extent he had seen among Elves.

He remembered how it had felt to be bare under the Elvenking's alien eyes though.  He remembered how it had sent heat through him when Thranduil had taken the measure of him in his new coat.  Surely Thranduil had no idea what he was doing to Bard, and Bard wanted very much to keep it that way.

Right now, though, he did not know if he had the reserves to command his usual self-control.

He waited overlong though.  With a gentle but firm hand, Thranduil pulled him to his feet and reached to untie his coat since it appeared he wasn't going to.

Feeling like a five-year-old, Bard batted the King's hands away and went about the work himself.  He would like to preserve what dignity he had.

His efforts were foiled, though, when he hissed in pain trying to shrug out of the coat.  The heavy mail underneath, the soreness of his ill-used muscles, and a lucky slice where shoulder met neck made him stiff and hampered his effort to remove his coat.

Thranduil needed no more prompting to involve himself, and Bard sadly had to let him.  It was much easier to shrug out of the finely tailored clothing with someone to help pull the sleeves down his arms.

Now resigned to his help, Bard made less fuss as Thranduil helped him with the rest of his attire.

Legolas was soon helping too.  He had done as his father asked.  Crushing the leaves had produced a wonderfully refreshing scent in the tent, which had lifted a little of Bard's weariness.  Legolas had left the leaves to seep in the water and then come to help his father take off Bard's mail and jerkin.

Soon enough, Bard was left shirtless in the center of the King's tent.  He tried not to feel self-conscious about being the center of attention for the two Elves.  It helped a little that Thranduil had pursed his lips together in an unimpressed way as he took in the myriad of cuts that littered Bard's arms or the riotous pallet of colors his bruises had painted all over him.

Bard looked down at himself to see the extent of the damage.  His mail had protected his chest fairly well from sharp injuries, though there had been one goblin wielding a blade meant for mail that had swiped him twice before catching in his armor and allowing Bard to kill the creature.

His arms had not been protected by anything but thick leather, which had proven little help against goblin-strength.  Wherever his mail had not covered -- as it shifted about his person in combat -- goblins had found their mark.  Bard was just lucky all the stabbing done in his direction had been where his mail protected him.  Slices and cuts were all he'd taken to his unprotected parts, though a handful were plenty deep.

But goblins favored sharp weapons little anyway, preferring brute strength.  Bard's chest and back were testament to that.  He'd taken dozens of blows.  His thick jerkin had only absorbed the hits a little and he had bruises everywhere to show for it.

He was just glad that the long flair of his coat had kept too many blows from landing on his legs.  His ankles ached from uneven terrain, but none of the goblins had seemed to favor low-attacks.  Bard's largest problem below his waist was frozen toes.

"Sit here," Thranduil said, grabbing Bard's arm and pulling him towards his bed.  Before Bard could protest, the Elf firmly pushed Bard down onto the elegant cot.

Thranduil then turned to his son and conveyed several instructions in Elvish.  Legolas listened attentively before nodding.  Watching as Legolas picked up Bard's coat and shirt, Bard wondered what he was doing.

Legolas gave him one last friendly smile before slipping again from the tent.

"Where's he going?" Bard turned to find Thranduil producing several bandages from the box he'd found earlier.

"Galion will see to mending your coat.  In the meantime, you must have something to wear.  Legolas will find you something suitable, though I doubt not Galion could fix your coat before morning."

"Surely your butler will need his rest," Bard protested.  He did not think his coat -- torn and dirty though it had become -- was such a priority.

"You forget, Lord Bard, that we are Elves.  Galion suffered no serious injuries in the fight and we need not the same sleep that Men do.  If, however, Legolas should find him asleep, I am sure my son will simply leave the work for him to do in the morning.  Galion will only mend it to a state that you can use it until he can make something to replace it."

Thranduil spoke in a matter-of-fact way as he set the bandages beside the basin and dipped a cloth into the still steaming liquid.

Watching him wring the cloth over the basin, Bard knew it was pointless to argue with Thranduil about a second coat.  Bard couldn't say he didn't need new clothes.  He also couldn't say he was worthy of such a fine coat but Thranduil had clearly made up his mind on the subject, and Bard knew a fight not worth having.

However, when Thranduil finally turned to him and Bard realized that the King was going to wash his wounds himself, Bard quickly grabbed a topic of discussion to distract himself from the heat of having the Elvenking so near.

"Your son doesn't seem like a prince," Bard blurted out before he could think better of it.

Thranduil had reached out to take Bard's arm but he paused before they actually touched, giving Bard a curious look.

Realizing what he'd said, Bard internally cursed himself.  Awkwardly, he said, "I mean, you sending him on errands.  That's not . . . I can't imagine _you_ grabbing steaming water or distributing food and the like."

It felt to Bard like he was just digging himself further into his hole but Thranduil apparently thought nothing of Bard's observation.  Indeed, he actually smiled as he glanced toward the entrance where his son had disappeared.  It was the warmest smile Bard had ever seen on the king, and he was struck by the clear pride in his smile and how it softened his stern features.

Gently, his long-fingered hand took Bard's arm and held it so that Thranduil could wash away the dried blood on Bard's shoulder.

"Legolas is my Silvan son," Thranduil said, his tone slightly rueful.  "He has no interest in great banquets, fancy clothes, or prestigious titles.  His love is for the forest and for song.  He is happiest to be useful.  Were I to command my guards to perform a task, Legolas would simply volunteer for the chore himself.  Seledhel, my eldest, is my Sindarin son.  He is more like me.  I suspect he would match more closely what you feel an Elven prince should be."

Bard had no idea what Thranduil meant by a Silvan son and a Sindarin one but he was glad that Thranduil did not seem offended by Bard's misstep.  Still, Bard felt he needed to make some amends for the insinuation.

Though he didn't really help himself by saying, "He's, um, he's a very fine Elf."

Thranduil smiled at Bard's awkwardness, his eyes warmed with affection.  "I think so too."

Bard decided it was probably better he stay quiet before he got himself into real trouble.

It was difficult, though, to have Thranduil's focus on his naked skin.  Thranduil finished with the smaller cut and then washed out one that was still bleeding.  He set the cloth in the basin to bandage the cut.

The Elf's hands were so warm as they worked expertly to dress his wound.  His touch was maddeningly light, mindful of all his bruises.  Bard felt no pain where Thranduil touched.  But it seemed that wherever Thranduil's fingers lingered, Bard's skin became hyper-sensitive.  His skin prickled and he shivered from more than cold.

He tried to focus on what did hurt.  His chest felt like one big bruise so there was nothing to hold onto there.  But his cuts stung at first when Thranduil ran the cloth over them.

It was only a momentary sensation.  Bard had no idea what was in the basin but the warm water relaxed his muscles and, after the initial sting, the medicinal properties of the liquid numbed the pain so that it didn't hurt much at all.

Thranduil stood very close to Bard, stooping his tall figure to reach Bard's hurts.  His leg pressed against Bard's thigh, and Bard was acutely aware of the contact.  He could feel the fabric of Thranduil's robes caress his skin as Thranduil's shifting here or there dragged his robe over Bard's arm or near his chest.

Bard wanted to reach out.  He wanted more than the ghost of silken material against his skin.  He wanted to touch Thranduil's silken robes and feel the texture between his rough fingers.  More, he wanted to grab Thranduil's waist and feel the solidness of him.  The King seemed so ethereal, so weightless.  His clothes were just as airy.  While his robes molded gracefully to his trim form, they left just enough to the imagination that it made Bard desperate to know the true contours underneath.

He balled his hands into fists and turned his head away.  Thinking of his children -- of the rebuilding ahead of him and the terrible things he'd just endured this day -- he tried anything he could to take his mind off the maddening Elf beside him.

Gentle fingers slid under his chin and bid him look back.  His head was tipped back at their touch and he was forced to meet Thranduil's gaze.  That the Elf was about to clean the wound on his forehead was clear.  But Thranduil paused when their eyes met.

Bard felt his breath catch in his throat.  The Elvenking's eyes were shadowed as they looked into Bard's, and Bard felt the gaze strike through him like an arrow to the heart.

Once again he found himself held captive by an ancient powerful gaze.  He felt open and bare in a way being merely shirtless had never left him.  The shivers that continued to rack through him eased a bit, though he was not in a position to appreciate that.

No, all he could see was that depthless gaze that spoke of mysteries and ancient burdens and secret knowledge -- secret pain.

Bard came very close to doing something stupid.  To baring his soul in words as well as looks.

But it was at that moment that Legolas returned.

Of course Bard did not hear him, Elven-light as he was.  But Thranduil abruptly broke eye contact to finally dab the cloth against the wound on Bard's forehead and Legolas was very suddenly just there.

"Here, Master Bard," Legolas said.  His tone was light and his expression friendly, apparently ignorant of the moment he'd just returned to.

With his chin held by Thranduil's hand, Bard could only shift his eyes to see what Legolas was talking about.  The Elf had a set of garments draped over his arm and he was holding up a silver shirt for Bard to see.

"You can use these for tomorrow.  I fear I am not quite as broad as you but I think they will fit well enough for a day."

Understanding that Legolas had retrieved a spare set of his own clothes, Bard's eyes widened.  His eyes slid down Legolas' slim form in a split-second of measuring and he saw immediately that their forms were more than a little disparate.  Legolas and he were about the same height but Legolas was slim like a slender birch.

"I will stretch those out of all semblance of fit," Bard protested.  He almost managed to break out of Thranduil's hold, but the King tightened his grip and forced Bard's head back in position so he could continue cleaning the cut.

Legolas only smiled.  "Mayhap," he said.  "But that is no worry.  Ada has been after me to get a new set of clothes, so he will be well pleased if you should stretch them out completely."

"And more work for your poor Galion," Bard noted.

"He let thirteen Dwarves slip away under his nose.  I imagine he will cope," Thranduil said dryly.

Legolas shared an amused smile with Bard, who felt himself relax for the first time since the battle had begun.

Setting down his spare clothes, Legolas came to stand by his father's side.  Thranduil said something in Elvish that had Legolas reaching for another cloth and dipping it into the basin.  Thranduil moved over so that Legolas could work on Bard's other arm.

Together, they worked efficiently to tend to Bard's hurts.  It was easier to deal with this when Legolas was also present.  Legolas began singing a bright melody, and Bard was amazed that he could still be so merry after the atrocities of battle.

But his heart was clearly Elven light, and Bard could see how it relaxed Thranduil to have him near.  The Elvenking still stood proud and stern, but Bard saw the soft expression in his eyes when they turned their focus to his son.

Bard felt a sudden new kinship to Thranduil.  He still couldn't really picture Thranduil raising a baby Elf but he suddenly had no doubt that Thranduil loved his sons as dearly as Bard loved his own children.  Thranduil clearly understood his attachment.

Perhaps Elves did not show their love as Men did but it was clear that Thranduil treasured Legolas.  It was clear that Legolas loved his father in turn.  There was no great declaration or showy exhibition of their love, but Bard could see it in the way they inhabited the same space.

It warmed his heart to see that Thranduil had someone to care for and who cared for him -- someone to ground him and lighten his life.  And Bard just assumed Legolas must enjoy the strength and stability his father offered.  Who wouldn't find that reassuring?

Watching them made Bard ache for his own children.  He couldn't leave Dale until they had come to terms with the Dwarves, which might be a lengthy process, but he considered sending for his children to join him here.  Perhaps he would consult with Thranduil about the safety of such an enterprise.

But that was not for now.

Bard's eyes felt so heavy.  All of him felt heavy.  His mind was fogging up again, and even the heat of the tent wasn't quite enough to battle away the cold.  Legolas' song lulled his tired mind even further, though it was not a lullaby.

He was so exhausted and it was quickly catching up with him.

Thranduil and Legolas finished their ministrations quickly.  Bard had just enough wherewithal to shrug into Legolas' tight shirt with Thranduil's help.  He couldn't keep track of Legolas too, so he didn't notice him kneeling to help Bard take off his shoes.

Nor did he notice Thranduil pulling the covers away to allow him room to lie down.  Even when the Elves gently pushed him to recline, he only had the barest hint of his usual rebellion.

A part of him knew he most certainly should not sleep in the Elvenking's bed but the rest of him overruled any such thought and he was soon settled under thick Elven covers.

The last sensation he took with him into the sleeping world was the feel of a hand gently carding through his hair.


	4. Chapter Three

The sound of a child's laughter caught Thranduil's ears.  Turning, he saw Bard and his two daughters standing at the edge of the Elven camp not far from Thranduil's tent.  Bard was clearly giving them some task to perform.  Sigrid was listening attentively but Tilda was watching the Elves with wide-eyed interest.

Bard said something that drew her attention back to him and the Elves were once again treated to her delightful laughter.  Sigrid rolled her eyes but Bard's expression was warm and affectionate as he listened to Tilda's reply.

After a moment, their meeting apparently concluded.  Bard stooped down to give Tilda a firm hug.  He gathered Sigrid close too, kissing her forehead.  The girls seemed unashamed of their father's affection and returned it freely.  They kissed his cheeks before Sigrid took Tilda's hand and walked off to perform whatever task Bard had given them.

Bard stood watching them for a moment, giving Thranduil the opportunity to observe him unnoticed.  He admired the softening of Bard's features when his children were near.  There was an openness to him that was not present at any other time.  He looked years younger and infinitely lighter to have his children with him.

Unfortunately, the rest of him looked terrible.  Bard was pale and haggard, the illness he'd been fighting since they'd first met finally finding its purchase.  A spectacular bruise had developed where he'd been knocked in the head, leaving him slightly swollen.  The general air about him seemed very tired.

He looked nothing so much as a man in need of a good week in bed.

"Ah, Lord Thranduil," Bard said, finally turning in the Elf's direction.  "I've come to see you."

"Indeed."  Thranduil felt the tug of a smile at his mouth as he watched Bard approach him.  Noticing Bard's usual shivering, Thranduil stepped back so they could speak in the warmth of the tent and out of the elements.

"You seem much lifted to have your children here," Thranduil noted.

Even looking like orc-kill, Bard's smile lit up his entire being.  "I am.  It's good to have them here where I can see they're safe.  I never feel quite right when we are apart."

"I anticipate some long nights for you in a few years then," Thranduil noted drolly.  He had no daughters himself but he knew the general sentiment regarding fathers and teenage girls.

Apparently Bard knew the same because his grin turned a little rueful.  But it was still bright and happy -- undimmed even by the prospect of worried nights or amorous suitors for his girls.  Thranduil thought he understood that too.  So long as his children were with him, he could deal with anything.

"So, why did you wish to see me?"

For some reason, his question seemed to fluster Bard.  The earlier contentment of again having his children with him disappeared.  Instead, he hesitated and looked slightly embarrassed.  He even had trouble meeting Thranduil's eyes, something Thranduil had noted was rare in his human friend.

"I, um," Bard tried to begin but he had to pause to clear the gruff note from his voice.  Thranduil didn't think he'd ever seen Bard so awkward before.

It was rather endearing, though the Elvenking wished he knew the cause.

Bard's second attempt was a little stronger.  "Now that Bilbo and Gandalf have left, and we've settled things with Dáin and the Dwarves, you will be leaving shortly and--"

"We shall not leave until you have what you need for winter," Thranduil interrupted.  He did not want Bard to feel that he would just abandon him now that Bard had his share of the treasure.  Thranduil was well aware that the hardships of winter were only beginning for Bard's people.  "I do intend to send much of my army home once we have ascertained that the goblins are truly gone, but I promised you labor in the rebuilding of your homes.  We will not leave until there are safe structures to house your people through this winter."

Bard reacted to Thranduil's firm statement of support by looking down at his boots for a moment.  When he lifted his head and met Thranduil's eyes, his earlier awkwardness had evaporated and his expression was that soft warmth similar to what he displayed for his children.

Thranduil was surprised to see it directed at himself but he couldn't deny he melted a little under that gaze.

"Thank you.  I appreciate that, my lord.  All of this -- everything -- it means a lot to me."  Bard's tone was soft now.  "And that's why I'm here.  Your friendship has been invaluable.  To my people.  To me.  I do not know what we would have done without you."

"I have told you there is no need for thanks," Thranduil said.  "My actions are quite self-serving.  I thought I made that clear."

Bard smiled.  "Yes, so you've said.  But self-serving or not, you have been immeasurably kind.  The truth, though, is that there is nothing I could give you to make up for what you have given me and my people."

He reached into his coat to pull out a little bundle of fabric.  "That's not what I'm doing though.  I would like to give you something but not as a payment.  Rather, I want to give you something to show you what your friendship means to me.  I did not expect to find such support -- such friendship -- in these times but you have offered it all the same.  That means a great deal to me."

Unwrapping the cloth, Bard extended his hand so Thranduil could see what he held.  "You, um, you once told me you liked emeralds so . . ."

Thranduil felt his breath catch.  He knew well the Necklace of Girion.  It was the finest treasure that the Lord of Dale had owned.  Made with five hundred emeralds held in webs of silver and gold, it was wondrously beautiful -- one of the fairest things that the people of Dale had ever made.

Thranduil had not said anything but he had been glad to learn that Dáin was returning the necklace to Bard.  Thranduil thought it only fitting that the new line of Kings should have their greatest treasure restored to them.

He had never intended that it should be given to him, and he wondered if Bard rightly understood the value of the jewelry he held in his large square hand.  The fact that Bard had decided to give _him_ the most prized possession of his house held implications Thranduil was not equipped to deal with.

Uncharacteristically thrown by the gesture, Thranduil had a hard time speaking.  "Lord Bard, I do not think you understand -- You cannot give -- I cannot accept something so valuable!"

Apparently expecting such a reaction, Bard did not look defeated or repentant.  Gently, he said, "Of course you can.  I want you to have it."

"But what about your children?  This is their inheritance.  Do you not want to see this necklace on one of your girls?"

Bard snorted.  "My children are used to cobbled-together toys and hand-me-downs.  I have received more wealth than I know what to do with in my share from Dáin.  More wealth than Dale truly needs.  I hope to put it to good use.  And still, my children will not be left wanting.  My girls will have enough pretty things to deck themselves in to make all their rivals jealous, and Bain has the ancient armor of kings at his disposal.  No, these will not be missed among our sorry lot.  You may be right that we don't rightly understand the worth of this thing, but then why not give it to someone who does?"

"Bard--" Thranduil was at a loss.

Taking a step closer, Bard put himself well within Thranduil's space.  "Please," he said softly, reaching out with his free hand to grab Thranduil's.  "I want you to have this so that you will know what you and your friendship are worth to me.  Even this is but a pale offering in that regard.  I would not abide anything less."

Without breaking eye-contact, Bard dropped the necklace into Thranduil's captured hand and curled Thranduil's fingers around the treasure.  The Elvenking was very aware that Bard continued to hold Thranduil's hand between his own.

Thranduil swallowed, feeling caught in Bard's gaze.  Searching his warm brown eyes, Thranduil saw nothing but honesty.  It staggered the King.  Never in his long life had anyone deemed his mere friendship worth so much.  He was again struck by Bard's generous spirit and felt that if anyone should be giving a token in honor of their friendship, it should be Thranduil.

For Bard's friendship was equally dear to him.

Struck speechless by Bard's unexpectedly heartfelt declaration, Thranduil could only nod.  His conceding was met with a bright smile from the Man, who squeezed Thranduil's hand once before letting go.

Thranduil found that he missed the connection intensely.

"Would you . . ." When Thranduil realized he'd voiced his thoughts, he immediately stopped.  But Bard was looking at him quizzically and Thranduil could still feel the ghost of his hands wrapped around him.

Trying to maintain his kingly air, Thranduil opened his hand and held it out to Bard.  "Perhaps you would help me put it on," he said boldly.

Feeling the uncommon flutter of nerves in his stomach, Thranduil wished Bard's reaction to his request was easier to read.  His dark eyes remained locked on Thranduil's but it was impossible to guess his thoughts.

Just as Thranduil was going to retract his request, Bard nodded and took the proffered necklace.  Thranduil took a quiet breath as Bard moved to stand behind him.  He could feel the heat of the Man standing so close.

Gentle fingers gathered his hair and held it up for a moment so Bard could draw one end of the emerald strand against Thranduil's neck.  Placing his hair over his shoulder, Bard then reached over his chest to grab the other end of the necklace.

Thranduil felt every brush of Bard's fingers against his neck as he went about clasping the necklace.  He felt Bard move a little closer in the process.  Thranduil closed his eyes to better feel everything.

It was too soon when Bard was again reaching for Thranduil's hair.  His fingers grazed along Thranduil's chest in the process, tracing a line up to his shoulder.  Bard let Thranduil's hair slip from his fingers in a cascade rather than releasing it all at once.

"There."  Bard's tone was dark and gruff, and Thranduil shivered at the sudden coolness at his back when Bard stepped away.

Thranduil turned around, prepared to thank Bard for his help.  But the words died in his throat.  The look in Bard's eyes when they alit on the necklace hanging around Thranduil's neck burned the Elvenking with their intensity.  Suddenly, Thranduil felt that this whole thing had been a very dangerous idea.

He felt his stomach tighten in anticipation of something.  Bard's gaze held him frozen.  He could do nothing but wait to see what would happen.

Thranduil had no sense of time -- no sense of how long they stood like that.  He had no desire to break the tense moment and Bard made no move either.

It was Bard's persistent shiver that finally ended it. 

Thranduil could see it shudder through him, making Bard stagger back a step.  As if a wave of weariness had passed right along with his shivering, Bard looked suddenly exhausted.  He touched a hand to his head, as one would do for dizziness or a headache.

The previous tension was forgotten under Thranduil's sudden concern for his friend.  "Perhaps you should seek your bed.  You look as if you will fall down."

Bard offered a weak, distracted smile.  "Yes, you are right.  My girls have been on me to rest since they got here."

"They are wise indeed," Thranduil said, gently taking Bard's elbow and directing him to the exit.  Thranduil had half a mind to displace one of his Elves and give Bard their tent but he knew Bard would refuse.  He was considering sending an Elf with Bard to make sure he made it to his temporary home without being distracted, as was his wont, when he saw Bard's smile.

"I can manage on my own."  There was a clear teasing note in his voice, and Thranduil huffed, annoyed to be so transparent.  That only made Bard grin wider, and Thranduil was secretly pleased by that.

"I should hope so," Thranduil said dryly.  "I do not foresee any additional catastrophes on the horizon so I think you are safe to take a few days to yourself to recover your strength.  Send someone should you need anything."

Bard nodded distractedly, apparently even more tired than he appeared as he did not call Thranduil on his mother-henning.

Uneasy, Thranduil watched as the new King of Dale slowly trudged away and disappeared from sight.

**********************************

Skin still tingling from the feel of Thranduil's silken hair against his fingertips, it was all Bard could do not to turn around to look at the Elvenking.  He could feel the Elf's eyes on him -- burning into him -- as he walked away.

Bard concentrated on that, trying to battle the sick feeling swirling in him.  The exhausted, battered feeling from the battle against the goblins had never left him.  His body still felt like one big bruise, heavy and creaking.  His head was stuffy and sluggish.  He was shivering constantly but he felt far too warm.

The only parts of his cold that had yet to present themselves were a cough and runny nose.  Otherwise, he was well and truly miserable with it.

Blinking rapidly, he tried to keep the world in focus as he plodded through the broken streets of Dale toward his own people's encampment.  Walking even that short distance took far more effort than it had any right to, and Bard was utterly exhausted by the end.

His people hailed him as he passed and he did his best to acknowledge them back.  His illness was well known now and more than one person urged him to take his rest as he passed them.  For once in his life, he planned on doing exactly that.

Thranduil was right; he wasn't doing anyone any good by insisting on helping when he could barely stand straight.

So, he made a straight line for "home".

It was the one stone house that had been mostly left unscarred from either dragonfire or the recent battle.  The upper story wasn't entirely habitable -- and Bard had been told in no uncertain terms by his second-in-command that Bard and his family would be getting an upgrade to a proper kingly dwelling once one had been made -- but it was the best Dale currently had to offer and his people insisted he have it.

After a lengthy debate, he had been obliged to give in on the matter.

Stepping through a slightly crooked door, Bard was again amazed at how much work his children had done to make the place homey.  As soon as they'd come to Dale, Sigrid had taken over the place, scrounging up blackened kitchen pots, bent silverware, and cracked plates.  Tilda had discovered half of a painting and some pretty flowerpots to liven up the space.  Bain had delivered the odd piece of furniture -- most in need of some kind of repair or other but functional enough for their current needs.

The girls had been ruthless in scrubbing the place back up to a shine.  Even Bain had been wrangled into housework, helping scour pots back into usable service and hauling water from the nearby well.

Looking out the little window in the kitchen, Bard could see his son was with a group of men who were working to remove a large piece of stone debris from the main road.  Bard felt immediately guilty that he wasn't there helping too.

Of course, they'd all refused his help earlier and he knew he'd only be in the way as he was.  Bain was a good representative for their family.  He'd been keen to help with any project he could.  He took after his father that way.

The girls were no different.  Even now, Sigrid had taken Tilda to look among the ruined houses for more usable lamps.  The Elves had provided enough oil for lights but there were few containers and Bard's people wished to work later into the night so as to get every second of labor they could before winter really started in earnest.

Everyone was being useful but Bard.

Sighing, he tore his gaze away from the window and headed toward the makeshift bedroom that had been an office in a former life.  If he couldn't do work, the best use of his time was to sleep and get better.  So, he pulled off his boots and coat, and prepared to do just that.

The rushes were piled high on the bed, but that did little to alleviate the hardness when he laid upon it.  He was used to hard beds and cold nights though.  Thranduil had provided him with enough blankets to keep warm and Sigrid had started a fire before they'd left so the room was not uncomfortable.

Tired and sore, it should've been no problem for Bard to drop off to sleep.  But, as with every night since that fateful night when his home had burned, sleep eluded him.  When he shut his eyes, he saw fire.

Shifting back and forth on the bed, he could not settle the restless itch that assailed him.  He had an intense urge -- an irrational _need_ \-- to see his children and make sure they were safe.  Even now that they were here in Dale, his unease about their wellbeing had not eased in the slightest.  When they were not in sight, he was constantly worried.

_You're being ridiculous_ he thought sternly to himself.  He'd just seen Bain a few minutes ago, surrounded by all the men in their community.  None of them would let Bain come to harm.  They had proven their loyalty during the battle; there was no danger there.  Bain would be occupied with work for hours; there was no opportunity for misadventure.  His son was perfectly safe.

His girls were too.  They were hunting near the Elven encampment and Bard knew that the Elves were keeping an eye on them.  Sigrid had promised not to stray beyond sight of their encampment.  If she could see them, _they_ could _hear_ her.  Bard knew his youngest was too enamored with Elves to test her sister's authority in the matter.  If Tilda were to wander from her sister's side, it would be to go _towards_ the Elves, not away from them.

No, they were perfectly safe too.

The feeling haunted Bard though.  Shifting again, it was all Bard could do not to get up and reassure himself -- _again_ \-- that his children were fine.

He didn't do that though.  He needed sleep badly, and he _knew_ his children were fine.  He could not afford to give into a baseless worry.

But he clearly had to do _something_ to overcome this unsettled feeling or he would never get to sleep.  He felt like he was standing on the brink of some great, swirling abyss.  He could feel it tugging on him, pulling him closer and closer to the edge.  He felt like he was fighting with all of himself to hold his ground and keep from being swallowed whole.  The feeling had been coming on him gradually and yet a foolish part of himself felt like the reason he was so exhausted was because he'd been fighting this internal battle for days now.

Closing his eyes, Bard took a deep breath and tried to will some calm into himself.  Usually the thought of his children was enough to center him, but they seemed to be at the heart of his current unease.

So, he let his thoughts wander to the one person he had ruthlessly avoided thinking about whenever his mind was unoccupied.

He thought about the ghostly memory of silken hair that remained in his fingertips.  He thought about the wonderful scent of pine and flowers.  He thought about a dry turn of phrase and about the taste of rich red wine.

Mostly he thought about the sight of Thranduil wearing the necklace he'd gifted him.

As soon as Bard had seen the necklace, he'd wanted to give it to the Elvenking.  His children had been excited by the idea too (well, except Bain, who hadn't thought it was right to give a necklace to a king -- his sisters were quick to school him on that note).  The memory brought a smile to Bard's lips.

He had been so pleased to finally have something worthy of the wonderful Elf who confounded him so.  Bard had wanted to give something back to Thranduil since the moment they'd met but he had begun to accept that there was nothing he had to offer.  Having such a magnificent necklace had made him feel like more of an equal to the Elvenking, and he couldn't wait to see how Thranduil would react.

It had been everything Bard had hoped and yet he hadn't been prepared.  He hadn't been ready to see Thranduil's long neck encircled by glowing green gems and strands of silver and gold.  He hadn't been ready to be given the chance to touch Thranduil freely -- to know for certain that his hair was as silken as it looked and that his skin was as soft as down.  He hadn't been prepared to breathe in his scent from so close.

He hadn't been prepared to see Thranduil wearing his gift.

Bard's breath hitched at the memory.  His hand slid down to rest low on his belly as he thought about the picture Thranduil had painted for him.

He let his thoughts run free with every memory of Thranduil he had.  He thought of that lithe form -- tall and strong like an oak -- covered in sumptuous fabrics that begged to be touched.  He thought about those long fingered hands that always seemed to be caressing whatever they deigned to hold.  He thought about the tips of delicate ears and the curve of a hard-won smile.

Mostly he thought about those unsettling blue eyes that seemed to reach inside him and strip him bare -- like a predator clawing into the soft belly of its prey.  Bard swallowed against a suddenly dry throat and shifted on the bed.  It felt too warm suddenly and he threw off the covers.

His mind remained fixed on unearthly eyes.  Ancient, wise eyes.  Eyes of the _other_.  If Bard were the prey, he knew he didn't want to be let go.  But he also wanted to push back.  He wanted to grab hold and reach in -- to take in equal measure what he was giving.  He did not mind surrendering.  He could feel himself opening up under that piercing blue gaze and he did not stop it.  He _trusted_ Thranduil.

But he wanted his share.  He wanted to grab the Elf and take his secrets.  He wanted to shelter him against the ancient hurt he could see lingering in the shadows of his eyes.  He wanted to set fire to the icy passion he swore he saw glimpses of in unguarded moments.  Whether it was only in his imagination or not, he wanted it all the same.

He wanted the softness rewarded to Legolas.  He wanted the biting winter of the King's anger.  He wanted the annoyed impatience offered when others weren't looking.  He wanted the vulnerability of the King's uncertainty.

He wanted it all.

Feeling himself slipping closer and closer to the edge, Bard no longer fought.  He thought of that ancient gaze sinking deep inside him and he only opened himself further.

With the memory of winter eyes, Bard let the abyss take him.


	5. Chapter Four

Thranduil was in the middle of a meeting with his highest councilors when a commotion outside his tent drew his attention.  Close to finishing anyway, he called an adjournment and went to investigate.

Of the things he expected to find, seeing his head guard struggling to restrain Bard's youngest daughter wasn't on the list.

"Beriedir," Thranduil barked.  "What is the meaning of this?

Before Beriedir could explain himself, Tilda used his distraction to wrench herself free.  She barreled straight for Thranduil, catching his long sleeve in her tiny hands.

"Mister King!  You have to help," she said earnestly, tugging on the fabric she was holding.  "Da won't wake up!"

Feeling his insides turn to ice, Thranduil was momentarily frozen by her words.  But he forced himself to push past his emotions.  Tilda was too young to understand her father's illness.  Likely, this was simply a misunderstanding of some sort.

"Child, I am sure that--"

Apparently knowing exactly where this was going, Tilda protested, "No!  It's _not_ 'just a cold'."  The way she spat out the words sounded to Thranduil like someone who had been told that one too many times.  Tugging a little harder on his sleeve, Tilda looked up at him with huge eyes.  "He won't wake up.  I've seen him sick before; this is different.  Sigrid and Bain are worried too but trying to be grown up about it.  But something's _wrong_.  Please, you have to help."

Looking into her earnest, worried face, Thranduil felt the dagger of worry twist a little harder into his heart.  He had not felt right about Bard's illness from the beginning but he knew himself to be too ignorant of human disease to rightly assess how concerned he should be.

His head knew that it was unlikely there was anything to worry about but his heart would not be so easily calmed.  In all likelihood Tilda was just unsettled to have her father sick after the dragon attack and the sudden unlooked for battle.

Thranduil would not quickly dismiss a child's concerns though.  In his experience, he had found that children were often more sensitive than they were given credit for.  They noticed things that others dismissed.  From what Thranduil had seen of Tilda and her siblings, they had inherited a strong measure of their father's pragmatism and calm.  He highly doubted Tilda would make such a fuss if she didn't feel it was honestly necessary.

That decided Thranduil.

"Beriedir, fetch Nethril."  His guard bowed and went to do as bid.  Thranduil offered a reassuring smile to Tilda.  "Nethril is my finest healer.  If something is amiss with your father, you may be assured she will discover it."

Tilda did not react to this news as Thranduil expected.  The Elvenking found himself on the receiving end of an intense searching look from far too worldly eyes for one so young.  His sincerity was being weighed, being judged.  Thranduil had a slight feeling of déjà vu.  Tilda had the same depthless eyes as her father.

After a long moment, she gave a little nod of gratitude and then collapsed against him.  Awkwardly he allowed the hug.  He could feel her shaking and he realized that she was truly scared.  He felt a wave of sympathy, imagining how terrifying and chaotic the last few weeks had been for her.

Her whole world had been upended.  Everything she knew had burned.  People she loved were dead.  Her father had gone off somewhere she didn't know -- somewhere terrible tales were told about -- and more of her people had died.  And now her father was ill.

It was no wonder she was upset.  Thranduil was at a loss how to comfort her.

Thankfully Nethril appeared soon enough.  Also, thankfully, she made no mention of the hug.  "You wished to see me, my Lord."  Tactfully, she used Westron in her address.

"Yes, King Bard has been ill of late and might have taken a turn for the worse.  Have you the necessary materials to see to his care?"

Nethril had a small satchel slung across her chest.  With a slight gesture to it, she said, "Of course."  Usually stern and completely focused on her work, the ancient Elf mustered up a fairly friendly smile and held her hand out to Tilda.  "Come, child, let us see how your father fares."

Tilda hesitated, looking up at Thranduil. 

It was clear what Thranduil should do.  He should encourage Tilda to go with Nethril and then return to his business.  He had every confidence in Nethril to discover anything wrong with Bard and to take good care of him.  She was a Teleri Elf who had been born near the waters of Cuiviénen and remained faithful to Thingol until his death.  Having learned the art of healing from Melian herself and taken the many opportunities afforded the Elves over the years to practice the art, there was no one among Thranduil's people more skilled in the craft of healing than she was.

Thranduil should leave her to it.

And yet, looking into Tilda's uncertain eyes, Thranduil knew he would not do that.  He needed to set eyes upon Bard and see for himself that the man was well.  And he knew if he did not do that, he would be useless with distraction for the rest of the day.

So, he took Tilda's hand and squeezed it.  He could see the relief in her eyes at his silent promise to come too.

Nethril's only response to his uncharacteristic behavior was the slight arch of her thin eyebrow.  But she took Tilda's other hand without comment and they walked the little girl back towards Bard's temporary home.

They likely made an odd sight.  Nethril alone guiding a little girl -- even one as well known as Tilda -- would not have heralded much attention.  Nethril was unassuming and slight.  She could pass for a nursemaid or servant or whatever else humans imagined of Elves.  They did not sense her age and wisdom -- her Sindarin heritage and power.

But Thranduil was another matter entirely.  Tall with a crown in his unusually golden hair, he was a well known sight.  Even if he considered Bard his friend, he doubted many others would believe their relationship was close.  Certainly not close enough for Thranduil to be babysitting Bard's daughter.

Thranduil was too old to care what others thought though, and no one dared to say anything.  Well, no one but Tilda's siblings.

"Tilda!" Sigrid hissed as soon as she opened the door to their small party.

Tilda did not look the least bit repentant.  "Da's sick and they can help."  She pushed her sister aside so Thranduil and Nethril could enter, and pointed to a room off to the left.  "Da's in there."

Not wasting any time on pleasantries, Nethril glided in that direction and Tilda followed after her.  Thranduil, though, hesitated.  He knew he should give his healer some space.  She had often taken him to task for breathing down her neck while she was working.

But more than that, Thranduil thought it was his office to see to Bard's children in his absence.  Standing in a makeshift kitchen, Sigrid and Bain had clearly been in the middle of making lunch for themselves.  Thranduil spied a kettle heating in the hearth and smelled tea on the air.  He concluded the elder children were trying their own home-remedies for their father.  He had no doubt Sigrid as the eldest had helped her father on many occasions nurse her younger siblings and knew what she was doing.

She was also responsible for Tilda's behavior and right now she looked rather mortified.  "Your Majesty, I must apolog--" she began.

"There is no need," Thranduil cut in smoothly.  He could see the worry in Bain and Sigrid that Tilda had mentioned.  They were clearly torn now with relief that a qualified healer would see their father and the embarrassment of having their sister demand the Elvenking's time.  "I am sure we would all be happier to have assurance of your father's health."

He offered them a reassuring smile.  Sigrid and Bain exchanged a look.  After a moment, Bain tentatively asked, "Do you think Da will be alright?"

Their clear unease did nothing to ease Thranduil's own fears.  He hoped that all three children were scared because their father was the only parent they had and the recent troubles had made them more aware of his mortality than usual, and not something about Bard's condition that had raised a particular alarm with them.

But Thranduil felt foreboding in his heart, and it was only growing with every passing second.

Still, he did not wish to burden the children with his unease.  Continuing to give them a reassuring a smile, he said, "Nethril who is with your father now has experience with all manner of illness.  I have no doubt she will identify his ailment and the best course of treatment to put him on the mend."

This seemed to appease the children some, though they still seemed on edge.   However, Sigrid seemed to remember herself and she made a small courtesy.  "We are very grateful for the consideration, my Lord."

Thranduil hid his smile when he noted the small kick she gave her brother, initiating a bow from him.  Sigrid gestured for Thranduil to enter Bard's bed chamber.  Thranduil inclined his head toward her before turning in that direction.

Passing over the door's threshold, he paused.  Bard lay in the middle of a narrow bed.  Sweat glistened on his neck and forehead as he moved his head restlessly.  He looked very pale and uncomfortable.

Swallowing down his disquiet at seeing Bard is such a state, Thranduil forced himself to move to Tilda's side.

There was a chair on the opposite side of the bed and Nethril had settled in it.  Bard's wrist was caught in her delicate hands as she sought his pulse.  Beside Thranduil, Tilda had claimed a stool and was clutching her father's other hand.

Nethril glanced up at her king but immediately returned to her examination.  Feeling rather awkward, Thranduil wasn't sure what to do with himself.  He didn't know the children well enough to offer any further comfort.  He knew nothing about illnesses so he could make no determination of his own on Bard's condition.  Any useful task Nethril came up with the children would undoubtedly perform.

There was no reason for Thranduil to be here.

Calling upon patience cultivated over thousands of years, Thranduil willed some calm into himself.  He could see that Bard was alive and breathing.  He looked awful but not necessarily at death's door.  Thranduil kept flicking his eyes between Bard and Nethril.  He saw nothing but professional detachment on her face, and Thranduil took that as a sign that she saw nothing amiss in this situation -- nothing to cause panic.

Or at least, that was until he saw her pause.  A shadow passed over her eyes, and Thranduil felt his stomach tighten in alarm. 

Something was wrong.

There had been something pressing in on him since his arrival here but he was beginning to feel it properly for the first time.

But Thranduil realized that he had known it for awhile now.  Whenever he was with Bard, there was an itchy feeling under his skin that Bard was in danger.  But they had had a battle to plan for and Bard was sick.  Thranduil had thought his alarm was merely worry over a situation he did not have enough experience with.

Now, though, he was beginning to rue his inattention.  He had known something was wrong and he hadn't pursued it.  He could feel it swirling around them like black tar.

Across from him, Nethril hesitated for a moment before reaching out to place her slim hand on Bard's forehead.  Thranduil held his breath.  The oily feeling pulling at him like a riptide receded for a moment.

But then Bard moaned in apparent pain and shifted slightly.  Nethril flinched back and the oily feeling slammed back into the room.

Now Thranduil could feel it fully and he pushed back hard against the evil lapping at his ankles.  It could not withstand his power and it retreated before him -- retreated back into Bard.

"Nethril." Thranduil's commanding tone was implacable.  When his healer's eyes turned to him, he could see the alarm in them.  Thranduil felt the icy fear he'd been holding back slip past his defenses and settle in his heart.

No, this was not an ordinary illness at all.

Calling upon her own impressive power of calm, Nethril was soon enough a picture of professional detachment.  But Thranduil could see the worry that still haunted her eyes, and he knew the children had seen how she'd flinched.

"What is it?" Tilda demanded.  Sigrid and Bain were watching from the doorway.  With his senses heightened from the danger, Thranduil could feel their emotions; he could feel that they were barely keeping their panic at bay.

Thranduil kept his attention on Nethril.

Licking her lips, she responded to him in Elvish.  "It is a curse."  Thranduil felt his heart skip a beat.  "I felt the same when I attended to Thorin."

Frowning, Thranduil also responded in Elvish, "You think the Dwarves cursed him."  He knew that couldn't be it.  If the Dwarves had been evil, he would've felt something from them before now.  He had anticipated trouble with them and kept his guard up, but there had been nothing.

Nethril shook her head and said, "No, but I think Thorin was exposed to the same evil that now afflicts Lord Bard.  I think it is the dragon.  Only something so powerful could lay such a curse upon this man.  Bard is strong-willed.  He would not falter under a petty curse.  But a dragon's spell . . . It would last beyond Smaug's demise."

Thranduil knew she had appraised the situation correctly.  His mind raced with information.  He could think of three other Men who had slain dragons.  Túrin's terrible fate was well known.  He had slain Glaurung, Father of Dragons, whose dying words had caused Túrin and his sister to take their own lives.  No one could say Túrin's curse was from Glaurung alone, but it was undeniable that his tragic end occurred by Glaurung's mischief.

Fram of the Éothéod had also slain a dragon.  Thranduil did not know his story quite so well but he knew that Fram's death was also the direct result of a dragon's death.  Dwarves had killed him over the worm's treasure.

Only Eärendil had been spared a curse, but then he had slain Ancalagon the Black in the War of Wrath and as an agent of the Valar themselves.  Thranduil could easily argue that he did not count.

And yet, was he not consigned to sail the skies forever?  Was that really a blessing?  Thranduil was not a mariner so he had not felt he fully understood Eärendil's heart but he didn't think even one who loved the seas would be happy to sail forever without any respite.  Surely even Eärendil with his wanderlust must occasionally wish to rest among his people.

So, did that mean that to kill a dragon was to be cursed?  Why had no one thought of this before?  Why hadn't Thranduil considered it?  He knew the evil of dragons, and how the curse of their treasure lingered long after their deaths.

"What is it?  What are you saying?" Tilda demanded again, her voice becoming slightly shrill with her worry.  She had given up her father's hand and now twisted on the stool to grab at Thranduil's sleeve.

"It's something more than an illness, isn't it?" Bain asked.  They had sensed it.  They could not name it but they had known something was off.  The Elves had only confirmed their fears but they still held out desperate hope that it might all turn out to be something so normal.

Thranduil did not attend their worries though.  Still focused on his healer, he asked in Elvish, "Is there something that can be done?"

The old stories suggested that if the cursed took another path, they might have been saved.  But that path was never taken and the afflicted always met a terrible end so no one knew for certain that the path not taken would have really led to redemption. 

Glancing at Bard's face, Thranduil felt keenly how much it would grieve him if Bard suffered the fate of Túrin or Fram.  Bard had survived the dragon attack and the burning of his city.  He had survived out in the cold and rain beside the lakeshore when there was no shelter from the elements.  He had survived against a legion of goblins bent on the destruction of his people.

Everything he'd done, he'd done with a good heart.  He had only made a few missteps, and none out of greed or malice.  He was not so proud that he would scorn advice or help.

And yet, would there be "another path" for him too?  Was it too late already?

"I believe there might be."  Nethril's voice was calm and sure.  "Bard has already shown a remarkable ability to fight against the curse.  I do not believe he has allowed it to inform his actions in any measure.  I also believe that is why he is sick.  A dragon uses a curse to twist and pervert whatever it can.  But it cannot pervert Bard or his love of his people and family.  Because of that, there is only one avenue left for it: to kill him with sickness."

"And there is a remedy?"

Before Nethril could answer, Tilda had apparently had enough.  She grabbed Thranduil's hand and tugged hard.  Standing on the stool, she managed to be close enough in height to meet his gaze.  "What is it?  What is wrong?  Is Da going to die?"

Thranduil was torn between irritation at the interruption and sympathy at her distress.  Pragmatically, he felt the best way to ease her worry was to fix her father so he did not intend to let her shift his focus from his conversation with Nethril.

However, that changed when Sigrid came further into the room.  "Please, your Majesty."  Her voice broke as she pleaded, tears forming in her eyes.  "If there's something wrong, we _need_ to know."

Glancing among the children, he saw that all three were similarly afflicted with worry and determination.  He sighed and looked to Nethril for her council.

"Your father is suffering under a dragon curse," Nethril said calmly.  Thranduil watched Tilda's eyes go wide with fright right before she whipped her head around to look at his healer.  Nethril did not wait for the inevitable questions.  Sternly, she continued, "I know of a _possible_ solution but I must consult with my king to determine its viability in this case.  Give us a few minutes to do that."

"But-" Tilda protested.

Bain interrupted his sister, "What do you mean a dragon curse?" He glanced at his father, the worry even more pronounced in his eyes.  "How could the dragon do this?  It's dead."

"I will be happy to explain the situation in detail," Nethril said patiently.  "But there is no time to do so now.  Your father's condition is serious and I need to speak to my king."

Tilda and Bain looked rebellious but Sigrid had dashed the tears from her eyes and grabbed them both by the arms.  "You heard her.  Let's let them get to work."

"But, Sigrid-" Tilda whined.

"You brought them here to help Da," Sigrid said sternly as she dragged her siblings out of the room.  "So, let them do that."

Watching her push her siblings out the door and shut it behind them, Thranduil had to admire her.  He was certain that Sigrid was just as worried as her siblings and desired answers no less than they did.  But, she had her father's pragmatism.

And, likely taking charge of her siblings had given her something to focus on to help her deal with her own worry.  Thranduil hoped that they would be able to reward her faith in them.  He turned to Nethril and said, "What solution do you propose?"

Hesitating briefly, Nethril reached out to touch Bard's arm.  Bard continued to twitch in his sleep and occasionally moan but he showed no indication of being aware of his guests.

Taking a deep breath, Nethril closed her eyes.  Again Thranduil could feel the cloying darkness tugging at him recede a little.  He could feel it trying to grab hold of him and he pushed back hard each time it came close.

"There," Nethril said, opening her eyes to meet his gaze.  "I can feel what you are doing."

"And what exactly _am_ I doing?" Thranduil asked.  As far as he could tell, he was just pushing the evil back towards Bard, which couldn't be good for the man.

Nethril did not answer directly.  Instead, she said, "You are our anchor.  You always have been.  You, your father -- you brought strength and power when you came to the Silvan people."

Nonplussed by this apparent non sequitur, Thranduil frowned.  "And what does that have to do with this?"

"By your strength, the darkness creeping up from the south is kept at bay.  By _your_ strength."

"I'm not alone in that."

"No," Nethril conceded, "But nor are you inconsequential.  Should your power wane, I believe Eryn Galen would fall.  For centuries, you have pushed back against evil.  You have great experience in this.  And you are very powerful.  I would say you are the _most_ powerful Elf east of the Anduin, and I do not think anyone would argue that point."

Becoming irritated, Thranduil said, "Again I ask, what does that have to do with this?"

Used to his temper, Nethril continued calmly, "What you have done for Eryn Galen, I believe you can do for Bard."

Thranduil glanced down at the man, feeling uncertainty take hold.  More quietly than he'd been before, he asked, "I-I have no talent for healing.  I do not know how to heal hurts."

"This is not a hurt," Nethril said.  "Not really.  It is a curse.  And what is the darkening of Eryn Galen but a curse sent by Sauron?  Breaking a curse can lead to healing but you needn't know healing to do it."

Feeling out of his depth, Thranduil shook his head.  "I am not sure--"

"I am."  Nethril stood up and approached her king.  Gently she touched his arm.  "My Lord, this curse is trying to seal off Bard from everything he knows and loves.  He is lost, and I cannot find him.  But _you_ can.  You are known to him; he will respond to you.  It is said in our camp that you have formed a friendship with him.  That is something we can build on.  You must find him and show him how to combat this curse."

"And how am I to do that?"

"I have tried to touch my mind to his but I am not strong enough to withstand the curse.  Bard needs something to hold onto -- something to help him overcome this curse.  He has withstood it this long and it is quickly burning itself out.  But not before it would take him.  Not before it would _kill_ him."

Thranduil felt that icy weight in his stomach harden as he glanced at Bard.  Nethril continued, "Push aside the darkness so that you can touch your mind to his.  Draw him back to the waking world.  That has proven effective so far in combating the curse.  Let him hold onto you until the curse is gone.  I do not believe it will take long now.  But if we cannot get to Bard soon, I fear it will be too late."

Although he was still uneasy about his ability to do this, there was no question that he wouldn't try.  He trusted Nethril, and he realized there was very little he wasn't prepared to do for Bard.

Turning his focus back to Nethril, he gave her a nod.

She needed no more, ushering him to take the seat she had vacated.  "I shall be observing everything from here.  Just try to grab hold of Bard's soul, and I will do the rest."

Thranduil took a minute to center himself.  He watched the rapid up and down of Bard's chest as he shifted restlessly on the bed, and considered what he would do.  Men often confused Elven power for magic.  Thranduil merely thought of it as his inner strength.  Now, he willed all his innate power to flow at his bidding.

When he felt he was sufficiently ready for this trial, he reached over to lay his hand on Bard's forehead.  For a moment he allowed himself only to feel the man's clammy skin and sweat-soaked hair.

Then he closed his eyes and sought beyond flesh and blood.  He could feel the oily evil of the curse rise up to meet him.  It was shockingly strong but Thranduil was determined.  He pushed back against it as hard as he could and continued to search for Bard's center.

He touched his mind to Bard's.

**********************************

When Thranduil opened his eyes, he was surrounded by fire.  He almost flinched back -- almost lost the connection -- but his steely self-discipline kept him rooted to the spot.

After the initial surprise, Thranduil looked around and saw that the flames were unmoving, like he was in a painting.  Looking further, he saw wooden walls and waterways and realized that he was in Lake-town.  It appeared to be on fire.

Thranduil slowly made his way through the frozen landscape.  There were no people.  Just buildings on fire and objects hung midair on their way to falling.

Turning a corner allowed Thranduil a good view of the sky and he again almost flinched to see Smaug right above him.  But Smaug, like the rest of Lake-town, was unmoving and still.

Thranduil realized he was seeing the night of Smaug's attack.

Cautiously, Thranduil continued his visual sweep.  Following the line of Smaug's large body, he finally saw Bard high above him.  Bard was standing atop a burning roof, his bow stretched taut and aimed straight at the dragon.

He too seemed like a statue.

Thranduil immediately made his way towards him.  Gracefully, he climbed up stairs and shimmied up walls.  He pulled himself from window to window, reaching ever upwards.  Once he reached the roof of the nearest house, he began leaping from building to building as he tried to get closer to Bard.

However, as he got nearer, he made a terrible discovery.

The flames on the ground were painted and harmless.  The world below was stagnant and quiet.  But as he finally reached the rooftop where Bard stood, he found that the fire was very real indeed.  It licked closer and closer to the Bowman.

"Bard!" Thranduil called.  He tried to rush towards him but a wall of flame rose up in a burst of fire and he had to leap back.

Bard did not seem to notice any of this.  His gaze remained steadfastly on Smaug.  Thranduil glanced at the worm and was distressed to see that Smaug was staring right back at Bard.  The dragon was actually hovering rather close, far closer than he must have been the night Bard slew him.

"Bard, please listen," Thranduil yelled over the noise of the fire.  "None of this is real.  You are not in Lake-town.  You are in Dale lying ill in bed."

"Ha!" a great big terrible voice snorted.  It was an evil laugh that shook Thranduil to his core.  He looked over and saw that Smaug was not merely a painting as Thranduil had thought.  No, Smaug looked back at Thranduil and Bard with his wicked serpent's gaze.  Thranduil could feel the evil of that gaze to his very soul.  He could feel it burrowing into him, seeking for a chink in his armor.  He could feel it trying to command him, and it was all he could do to wrench his gaze away and back to Bard.

"Next it will tell you that you are King of Dale," the dragon laughed.

Ignoring the dragon, Thranduil tried again to get Bard's attention.  "Bard.  Come away with me now."

"You're not real," Bard ground out, still not bothering to break eye contact with Smaug.

Surprised that Bard had spoken and even more surprised by his answer, Thranduil was momentarily thrown.  But he marshaled himself quickly enough.  "Yes, I am.  You must believe that.  This is an illusion."

"No," Bard said calmly, his entire body taut.  " _You_ are the illusion.  Conjured up by this foul demon to distract me.  Be gone!"

Thranduil shook his head.  "I am no illusion.  Bard, it is me.  It is Thranduil!  We met on the lakeshore.  I lent you my cloak.  Do you not remember?  You marched with me to Erebor and we fought to victory against a host of goblins.  You _must_ remember."

"You must be desperate, Bard the Bowman," Smaug said in silky tones.  Thranduil was horrified to see that the dragon was actually drifting closer, little by little.  "Is that your secret wish?  To be King?  To be a war hero?  To reclaim your lost birthright and rebuild Dale?  What a reach your imagination has!"

"Do not take me for a fool," Bard said calmly.  Despite the situation, Thranduil had to admire his steely determination.  He stood straight and proud, never wavering in his focus.  "These are your tricks.  I will not fall for them.  I know the truth, and I will not be fooled by the likes of you, worm!"

"Ah, indeed, you are too much for me," Smaug laughed.

Thranduil wasn't quite sure what he was seeing but he could feel the fire growing hotter around him -- he could feel Bard slipping away.  Desperate, he tried again, "Bard, think of your children.  They need you."

That seemed to get Smaug's attention.  He swung his tail like a mighty whip, smashing it into a nearby building and reducing it to a frozen shower of kindling.  "Yes," he growled angrily.  "Let us remember your children -- somewhere below you about to _burn_!  Do you really think you can save them?  Do you really think you can defeat _me_?  You are not strong enough to hold me at bay.  I will swoop down and _devour_ them."

"Nay, you will not touch them," Bard growled lowly.  His hold on the bow tightened.

Thranduil frowned.  "Bard, your children are not below you.  They are in Dale, with you.  And they are worried.  You are suffering from a curse.  Bard, you must come with me."

"Silence!" Bard yelled.  "I will not hear any more of your bedeviled talk.  I know your purpose.  You would use my fear for my children to distract me and give this monster the chance to destroy us all.  I will not yield and I will not listen!  I know my children are below me and I will protect them."

"Oh, so brave," Smaug taunted.  His large head was even closer now.  "But it will be for naught.  You will falter, little man, and then I will have you!"

The roof around Thranduil creaked and shifted.  Thranduil had to quickly reposition himself to keep his footing.

When he was stable, he looked again at the stalemate between Bard and Smaug.  Why wasn't Bard just shooting the dragon?  Why was he just standing there?

Thranduil's mind raced to understand what he was seeing.  Quickly thinking over what the dragon had said, he realized what was going on.  What he was seeing was not Smaug but Smaug's curse.  It had trapped Bard.  So long as Bard focused on Smaug, he was helpless to the curse.

And what better way to keep him trapped then to use the threat to his children's lives?  In Bard's mind if he wavered, they were dead.  It was sickeningly brilliant, and Thranduil was momentarily stymied on what to do next.

He realized he had to get Bard to remember something of what had happened in the weeks since the dragon's attack.

"Bard, I am not a phantom brought on by this beast.  I am real.  If what you think is true, then we have never met before but you know what I look like, do you not?  Can you not picture me in your head?  Do I not look like what you know?"

For the first time, Bard's eyes glanced in his direction.  It was only a flicker but Thranduil saw it.

Unfortunately, Smaug took the opportunity to drift much, _much_ closer and Bard noted it.  "I will not be ensnared," he said firmly.  "Be gone!"

Thranduil could hear the tension in his voice.  He was only just hanging on, and Thranduil knew he must act quickly.

"Do you remember the Arkenstone?  You tried to give it to me, and I scolded you for being foolish.  I gifted you a blue coat because you were always cold; do you remember that?  You ruined it in the Battle and I tended to your wounds.  My son sang to you.  Can you not hear his voice?  Do you remember the smell of athelas in the water?  Do you remember the feel of my hands as I bandaged you?"

Focused on Bard's every detail, Thranduil noted the slight waver to Bard's bow and hope flickered in his heart.  Something he was saying was having an effect.  He had to keep it up.

He quickly decided it was the concrete details that were getting through to Bard -- giving him smells and sights and sounds to trigger his memories.  Trying to continue in that vein, Thranduil said, "My son lent you one of his shirts and you had to struggle into it.  Do you remember how tight it was?  Can you feel the silk against your skin?  Or falling asleep in my bed?"

The slight shake in Bard's bow was becoming more noticeable; Thranduil could see he was getting through.  But before Thranduil could go on, Smaug's laugh again filled the air.

"My, my, what sordid thoughts run through your head, Bowman."  His voice oozed malicious glee.  "So deliciously decadent, so self-serving.  What would your children think if they knew the secret desires in your heart?"

"Silence!  I have had enough of your games," Bard yelled.  Thranduil could see the tension in him wind even tighter; he looked like a man on the brink.  "End this paltry trick ere I put an arrow in your eye!"

While Smaug laughed, Thranduil frowned.  Again, he was left unsure of Smaug's taunt.  But he could feel the dragon's breath on him now; the fire was growing stronger.  There was no time to waste.

"Bard, please remember-"

"No!" Bard snapped.  His hold on the bow had wavered but now he pulled it back taut again.  "I have told you to stop this, worm, and I will be obeyed.  I will not listen to your deceits any further.  Cease your prattling!"

Surprised at the vehemence of Bard's response, Thranduil was momentarily quiet.  He had been getting through to Bard -- getting under his skin -- but the curse was working against him.  He had to come up with something to really grab hold of Bard -- something to make Bard focus on him with the same unwavering intensity that he was giving to Smaug.

Lightening quick, the thought struck Thranduil.  He remembered the searing look Bard had worn when the man had seen Thranduil wearing the Necklace of Girion.  Thranduil had felt that look all the way to his bones.  He had felt on the edge of something momentous then.

Despite the fact that he didn't know what had been going through Bard's head at that moment, Thranduil's Elven insight latched onto the idea.  Letting his instincts guide him, Thranduil took a moment to go over some concrete details himself.  He remembered the weight of the necklace, the feel of its cool metal against his skin.  He remembered how it had felt at the back of his neck and how he had looked when he'd seen himself in a glass.

He willed those memories into existence.  He focused on the details, doing everything he could to make himself believe he was wearing the necklace right now.

When he could feel the necklace hanging once again about his neck, he again focused on Bard.

Smaug was within throwing distance now, always inching closer.  Dragon and Man continued to lock stares.

"Bard," Thranduil called out.

"I told you-" Bard growled out angrily.

Thranduil ignored the interruption.  "If you will not listen, will you at least look?  Look at me now, Bard.  Tell me that I am a figment created by a monster."

Apparently against his will, Bard glanced over at him.

Thranduil thanked the Valar that, just as before, Bard seemed entranced the moment he saw Thranduil wearing his gift.  It seemed that despite his best efforts, Bard just couldn't look away.

Unnoticed, his bow began to dip.

"Yes, Bard, you remember this, do you not?  You gave it to me as a sign of our friendship.  If you are not the King of Dale, how would you know what this necklace even looks like?  If we have never met, how would I have come to have it?  Indeed, if you have not killed Smaug, how could it be out of the Mountain at all?"

Thranduil wasn't sure if Bard was even hearing him but he kept talking.  Something had clearly caught Bard's attention and Thranduil wasn't going to let go a second time.

"But you know these jewels.  You _gave_ me this necklace.  Do you remember?  I tried to decline but you . . . You damnable man with your depthless eyes would not accept my refusal." Thranduil tried to sound aggrieved but he knew he had not been able to hide the affection in his voice.

Bard's bow dipped further, and Thranduil continued to press his advantage.

"You wrapped your hands around mine so I could not give it back.  Do you remember holding my hand thus?  Standing so close to me?"

Finally Bard let his bow go completely slack and turned to Thranduil fully.  "I asked you to put it on me.  You gathered my hair in your hand.  I felt the brush of your fingers against my neck as you clasped the necklace closed; do you remember my skin as I remember your touch?"

Bard took a step towards him but he still did not say a word.

Speaking quietly, trying to draw Bard even closer, Thranduil said, "I turned around and your expression stilled my tongue.  What were you thinking when you looked at me so?  When you saw me wearing your gift?  Tell me, Bard, what captivated you so?"

Taking another step closer, Bard had that same intense expression Thranduil was talking about.  Thranduil found the look just as affecting as it had been then but he forced his tongue to continue speaking.

"You know what the Elvenking looks like.  But he has not been to Esgaroth in anyone's living memory.  You know what the Necklace of Girion looks like.  But it has been locked in Erebor since the dragon came.  You know what the king looks like _wearing_ that necklace.  And yet, that should never be for he has no claim on that necklace.  So, tell me, Bard.  How do you know these things if they have not happened?  How can I be an illusion when you hold memory of me on your fingertips?  What you are seeing here isn't real.  You have already slain the dragon and your children need you.  _I_ need you.  Please.  _Please_ , come home."

Bard had moved even closer while Thranduil had spoken but he remained maddeningly just out of reach.

"Fool!" Smaug thundered.  "Will you be taken in by such an obvious ruse?  How could any of this be true?  A common soldier and a king?  You are mad."

For once, Bard did not turn to look at the dragon.  His eyes remained locked with Thranduil's.  But Thranduil saw him hesitate.

"Bard-"

"How . . ." Bard started.  His voice was quiet, hesitant.  Suddenly he looked so very vulnerable.  Thranduil wanted so much to reach out to him but it felt like he was glued to the spot.  It felt like a great invisible barrier lay between them

Thranduil realized he'd gone as far as he could go.  Bard had to come to him now.

Clearing his throat, Bard said, "How can it be true?"  His eyes roamed over Thranduil's features with a look of wonder and sadness in them.

"How can what be true?"  Confused, Thranduil was nonetheless delighted to see Bard take one more step to him.  Bard reached out as if to touch but his hand hung in the air undecided.

"You are a great king.  I am nobody."

"That's not tr-" Thranduil protested instinctively.

But Bard didn't seem to hear him.  There was a dreamlike, haunted quality to his expression as he continued on as if there had been no interruption.  "You have lived for more years than I could dream.  You have seen great things.  You have _done_ great things.  I am simple.  I want simple things . . . Or, I wanted simple things.  Valar, what have you done to me?"

For a moment, he closed his eyes and looked just _exhausted_.  He sounded so defeated and Thranduil wished he knew why.

"What have I done?  Bard, what is it that you fear?  Please tell me.  I only wish to help you."

Bard opened his eyes again, and the look therein was bruising to behold.  Wretched.  Hollow.  Undone.

Thranduil felt the curse circling closer to him.

"How can you not know?  How can you stand there and say such things to me and _not know_?"  Bard retracted the hand that had been hovering between them to wipe wearily at his brow.  "From the moment I first saw you, I have been ensnared by you."

With a sudden change of mood, Bard took that last step to be right before Thranduil.  Suddenly fervent, he demanded, "Tell me it was deliberate.  Tell me this is some Elf-magic you have woven to further your own ends.  You keep telling me that your actions are self-serving; is that what this is?  Some spell you have cast to make sure I desire only to please you."

Surprised by the outburst, Thranduil didn't know how to respond, "I am not . . . Elves cannot . . . It is not in our power to make such spells!  We cannot influence Men that way."

Bard gave Thranduil that soul-deep penetrating look of his, searching for the truth.  Thranduil met his gaze with a searching look of his own.  Bard's accusation had sent him reeling for its unexpectedness.  Now, though, he was given a moment to marshal his thoughts.

A slight rumble made him aware that Smaug was hovering ever closer.  Never breaking eye contact with Bard, Thranduil pushed back against the curse as well as he was able in someone else's mind.

Feeling the evil so close focused Thranduil.  He had to get Bard out of here; he had to get Bard to reach for him.

And that meant figuring out what was going on his head.

"I have not cast any spell," he said firmly.  "But what if I had?  Do you really feel that I am the fulcrum at the center of all your decisions?  Really?  You have not gone blindly with any decision I have suggested.  You have insisted at every step to learn the reasoning of my actions before you would join them.  Never once have you put the considerations of Elves before your own people, and more than once I have yielded to the needs of your people over my own designs."

A frown was deepening on Bard's face as Thranduil spoke and the Elf knew his words were having their intended effect.  Gently, Thranduil asked, "Why do you feel I have bespelled you?"

Bard let out a bitter snort.  Once again his hand came up to hover between them, again undecided about taking that last step to touch the Elvenking.

"How can you not know?" he whispered the words he'd yelled earlier.  "You are so beautiful, so wonderful.  How could anyone see you and not . . ."

"And not?" Thranduil prompted.

But Bard only shook his head, his hand falling once again to his side.

Thranduil tried to mask his disappointment and his disquiet.  Despite his efforts, Smaug was getting closer -- the _curse_ was getting closer -- and Thranduil still did not know what to say to get through to Bard.

"Bard, please take my hand.  Let me show you how to get out of here."

Looking suddenly sad, Bard responded, "You ask a great deal of me.  I can feel the fire here.  I can feel the dragon's evil.  And you would have me believe that I am far from here?  You would have me believe that the King of the Elves has come to save me, a simple guardsman?"

"And why not?" Thranduil demanded, becoming irritated at Bard's consistent refusal to accept him.  He did not understand how Bard could believe this place was real.  Smaug was just sitting there doing nothing.  If this were real, then they certainly wouldn't have the time for this lengthy debate.

"Why do you believe that I would think less of you for being a guardsman?"

Bard shook his head slightly.  "Not less of me.  No, I do not believe you would think that.  I know my value.  I am a good guard and I am a good father.  That is all I have ever aspired to be.  But, though I feel justified in saying I have done well by that measure, that is not something kings are bothered with.  An Elf in your stead -- I could believe that.  But the King himself . . . no, that is too far."

"Why though?" Thranduil was honestly bewildered.  Yes, he was more likely to send his own guards and servants to help the needy in Esgaroth.  But if he saw a human bleeding out in front of him, he would render aid.

"Why?" Bard reiterated.  He sounded equally bewildered that Thranduil did not understand.  "Because I am human."

"And do you think that I do not like humans?  That I see myself as above you all?" Thranduil demanded.  He did not bother to disguise the anger in his voice but then he didn't like anyone insinuating that he did not care.

Bard responded with that awkward expression of his -- the one he wore when he'd blundered into dangerous territory.  "I didn't . . . That's not what I meant.  It's just that our lives are so short and--"

"Let me tell you how I view Men," Thranduil cut in.  His voice was again stern and commanding, and not unexpectedly Bard fell quiet.  "I have known many Men over my years.  Yes, some have done terrible deeds.  But some have done great ones.  Men have done no more evil than Elves have.  Indeed, they have done some truly wondrous things.

"I have always admired just how much you can accomplish in the short years allotted to you.  As a child, I saw Beren in Doriath.  I saw the light of joy he brought to my Princess, and the terrible price he paid to earn her hand.  In Ossiriand before the War of Wrath, I had a chance to patrol with the Men who remained behind in those parts.  Those were very good people.  Honest, stern, good-hearted people who wanted no more than what you want -- a safe place they could call their own to raise their families.  They cared little for gold and trinkets.

"I went to war with the best of Men an Age ago.  I saw their prowess in battle and it impressed me greatly.  More, their generosity of spirit moved me.  For, of all the people who joined the Last Alliance, it was Anárion, son of Elendil, who knew the right words to comfort me when my father died.  It was he who searched me out and to whom I could express my grief.  I called him friend too, and I am grieved by his loss.

"But he did not die of old age or sickness.  He died in the war.  And that is what you must understand.  Yes, I am immortal.  Yes, my people do not sicken or age.  But we have known death.  We should not have but the world has not been kind.  Many of those I love, I have lost.  Even those who I know will die can still be taken from me before their time.  So, do not speak to me of your mortality as if I am ill prepared for it.  Do not speak to me as if I do not see how precious your life is.  How precious your children are.  How wondrous it is that you and your people can suffer all that you have and keep going on.

"You have accomplished a remarkable feat in slaying the dragon but I admire you so much more for how you have led your people since then.  You _are_ a good father, and that _does_ impress me.  I have seen that you are a stalwart companion to your fellows and a quick learner.  I am impressed by your sharp mind and your generous heart.  You are an inspired leader and I see only greatness in your future.  You are my _friend_ , Bard.  You matter to me.  So, yes, I would come here to get you.  Yes, the _King of the Elves_ would trouble himself to pull Bard, son of Brodd, out of danger."

Thranduil's tone may have become a little testy at the end but Bard did not seem to mind.  Indeed, the warmth in his eyes was back.

"Do you really think that of me?" he asked.

Thranduil refrained from rolling his eyes.  "I do.  I do not account many among my close friends but I would account you as one.  I have . . . I have been much enriched for knowing you.  And I would like to know you for some time more, so if you would kindly stop delaying . . ."

Thranduil held out his own hand but he felt a wall of pressure keeping him from actually touching Bard.

Again, Bard's eyes searched his.  Thranduil was growing impatient -- impatient and _worried_.  The vision of Smaug in the air was about where it had been.  But the _feel_ of Smaug's evil around them was only growing.  Thranduil was pouring all of himself into the effort to keep it at bay.

Beginning to feel desperate, it was all Thranduil could do to keep his tone calm.  "Bard, why do you hesitate now?"

Bard's eyes strayed to the necklace around Thranduil's neck, and he swallowed visibly.

"You are right to scold me," he said softly.  "You would indeed come to rescue me, and I am glad to account you as my friend too.  But . . ."

"But?"

Bard's eyes met Thranduil's again.  For a moment, he seemed to be weighing something and Thranduil could not read his expression.

"Tell me, Thranduil, have you any secrets you hide in your heart?  Have you ever desired something you should not?"

Thranduil frowned.  "You mean like the Arkenstone or . . .?"

Shaking his head, Bard said, "No, not a thing.  Something else.  Some _one_ else."

A shadow fell over Bard's eyes when he said that, though they did not waver in their intense examination of Thranduil's own gaze.

Thranduil's mind worked furiously to understand this new riddle.  His mind finally lit on the only possible answer and he felt the dragon curse latch onto him as ice filled his veins.

Bard knew.  He must have figured out that Thranduil desired more than friendship from him.

_Of course he knew_ , Thranduil thought, pushing irritably against the curse trying to burrow inside him.  The feel of the curse once again focused Thranduil.

There was a not insignificant part of him that feared losing Bard's friendship and respect if he admitted to what Bard hinted at.  And he would be lying if he said he wasn't angry that Bard was forcing his hand on this topic now.

But Bard's life was on the line here.  If this was what it took to bring Bard home, then Thranduil would gladly bare his soul.

"You wish me to admit that my admiration of you does not stop with your keen intellect, your prowess in battle, or your love for your family?  Very well.  I admit it.  My interest has not been entirely pure for some time.  I noted immediately that you are fair to look at -- strong and broad as Men are wont to be.  Your stubbornness and grim mood intrigued me and your kind heart won me over, but I have not been immune to your physical charms either.  I have not been similarly preoccupied by such desires in centuries, nor have I ever viewed any of your race as anything but a friend before."

Thranduil swallowed, finding this more difficult than he'd been prepared for.  He forced himself to soldier through though.

"But, you are exceptional in so many more ways than you give yourself credit for.  I do not think you understand the appeal you hold.  How utterly distracting you can be.  I am not surprised that you noticed.  You--"

"Wait," Bard said.  He had been frowning throughout Thranduil's words, but it seemed more like a frown of confusion than one of anger.  "You . . . You desire me?"

Annoyed to be pushed this way, Thranduil huffed unbecomingly.  "Obviously.  Isn't that why you asked?  I do not know why you delight in tort-"

Thranduil's words were unimportant -- something to say to mask how vulnerable he was feeling to make this admission.  Whatever he had been going to say, he didn't really know.

But it didn't matter.  Bard finally reached out and gently cupped Thranduil's face.  Suddenly, Thranduil could feel Bard's entire soul.  It was warm and strong, just as Thranduil knew it would be.

Closing his eyes, Thranduil allowed himself a moment to feel the connection fully -- to revel in being so intimately connected to someone he cared so much about.

The warmth of their connection drove back the cold of the curse.  Thranduil could feel how it flowed through Bard, cleansing him of the evil for good.

Opening his eyes, Thranduil was once again in his own body.  His hand remained on Bard's forehead.

But one thing had followed them into the waking world.  Bard's eyes were open now and he was still looking at Thranduil with that strange expression of his.

"Da!"

Three voices broke the moment.  Thranduil hastily pulled back his hand as Bard's children rushed toward the bed and almost tackled their father.

Bard groaned at the impact but laughed too, and Thranduil knew this was what his friend needed to completely defeat the curse.  It was worry for his children, after all, the curse had used to bind him.

Thranduil felt drained as he got to his feet, and he knew a rest was in order.  As the children babbled to their father about how worried they had been, Thranduil looked around the room until he spotted Nethril hovering by the doorway.

Thranduil walked to her side.  She smiled approvingly at him, and that was enough to tell him he had been successful in lifting the curse.  The rest of Bard's health was in her hands now.

Both Elves watched as Sigrid propped pillows while Bain helped his father to sit upright and Tilda clung to his middle in a clutching hug as Bard kissed her head and told her it was alright.

Smiling slightly at the touching scene, Thranduil decided it was best to give the family some privacy.

He nodded to Nethril and then slipped out the door.


	6. Chapter Five

Walking down the ruined streets of Dale, Bard felt lighter than he had in weeks.  Lighter and more himself.  It was deep night but he felt like the sun was shining on him anyway.  There had been a storm hovering over him and now that it was gone, he felt relaxed and ready to take on the world.

His injuries were healed.  The curse was gone.  The rebuilding of Dale was making some significant strides forward, and his children were tucked safely into bed.

For once, even his grim demeanor could not find anything to worry about.

There were not many of his people out so late, but the Elves were still lurking about.  Bard did not consider the lateness of his visit to be improper or imposing.  He had noted that the activity in the Elven camp never really stopped.  It quieted some at night but there always seemed to be the same number of Elves about.

So Bard did not feel out-of-place calling upon Thranduil so late at night.  The Elves he passed certainly nodded to him as if there was nothing odd about him being there.

However, when Bard approached Thranduil's golden tent and saw that the door flap was closed, he wondered if perhaps he had erred after all.  Thranduil did have a bed.  Bard had never seen him use it but presumably even he had to sleep sometime.

Or, more likely, he was in council.  Bard had no wish to disturb him unduly.

The guards outside the tent did not give him a chance to retreat though.  One slipped inside the moment she saw Bard and he could hear her announcing his presence.  A moment later, he was bid entrance.

Nodding to the guard as he passed, Bard found the tent to be as warm and cheery as ever.  Thranduil was rising from his throne as Bard entered.

"Master Bard.  To what do I owe this late visit?"

Bard noted how neutral the Elvenking's tone was and the guarded look in his eyes.  He smiled to put the Elf at ease.  "I fear I have been remiss in my duties to you, my Lord.  I have not seen you since you broke the dragon's curse.  It has been two days since your healer released me from her care and I fear this late hour is the first moment I have had to seek you out."

"If you have felt an obligation to attend me, I must beg your pardon." Thranduil's tone remained cautious, his wary demeanor not yet softened.  "For certainly you owe me no particular attentions.  I know you are still recovering.  I had not expected you."

"Recovered," Bard corrected brightly.  "I feel right as rain again.  And I would thank you for that."

"That is not--"

"--necessary."  Bard grinned to soften his interruption.  "Yes, I'd rather thought you'd view it like that.  But, I am grateful.  I'd no notion I'd been cursed.  No idea how a curse would feel.  I'm glad you were there to help me."

Glancing away, Thranduil did not look as if he shared Bard's feelings.  "Glad you may be but your gratitude is ill placed.  Were I paying proper attention, I would have identified the nature of your affliction before it could cause you such harm and your children such distress.  I should have noticed it much sooner."

Disliking the unhappy air about the king, Bard stepped closer so that Thranduil once again met his eyes.  "You are determined to be gloomy, I see.  Well, I can't accept that.  It is my office to be grim, or hadn't you heard?  I am the foreteller of troubles -- the eternal gloomsman who can find the dark cloud on every sunny day.  Now, I must insist that you not steal my defining trait.  How will anyone tell us apart then?"

Thranduil gave him a strange look but Bard finally saw a little of the tension in him ease.  "You are very cheery this eve," Thranduil noted with a frown.

Bard's smile grew.  "I am indeed.  A novel experience, I assure you."

"And is there some particular cause for your good cheer?"

Shrugging, Bard said, "I . . . I just feel good.  I feel like me again.  Like a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders.  My people are doing well.  The city's repairs are coming along.  My children are healthy and safe.  And I have the friendship of a great Elf who combated a curse I am told was very powerful and then thought himself at fault for not doing so sooner."

Bard was fairly sure that Thranduil's disapproving look was for the teasing note in his voice.

"I would not make such light of this, Master Bard."

"Nor am I."  Finally Bard turned serious.  "Lady Nethril told me all about the curse and how you combated it.  I . . . I cannot express how I feel to know what you risked for my sake.  She told me about Túrin and all the Elves who died because of his curse.  It makes me sick to my stomach to think that you and your kin could have been endangered by me being cursed."

"There was no real danger of that--" Thranduil began but Bard did not allow him to continue.

"She also told me how the curse was poisoning the air around me and trying to grab hold of you.  That you would risk that to save me means more than you can know."

"Nethril exaggerates," Thranduil said.  "I would not say it was easy but you were the only one in real peril.  Had I attended to you earlier--"

"No," Bard interrupted again.  Boldly, he stepped closer and reached out to take Thranduil's hand, which effectively silenced him.  "Easy or hard, soon or late -- all that matters is that you did it.  You broke the curse.  I do not desire that you should feel distressed on my account.  It is done.  Do not give that dragon a second thought for he does not deserve it.  I say your actions are praiseworthy, and as I was the one afflicted, I insist that you see it the same way."

"Oh, do you?" Thranduil said with an arched eyebrow.  But Bard could finally see the first glimmer of humor in his eyes.

Squeezing Thranduil's hand, Bard smiled.  "I do.  I insist upon it.  And I am a king now, so what I say goes."

Thranduil laughed, as Bard had hoped.  "You are in a ridiculous mood tonight.  It is a terrible precedent to set but very well.  I acquiesce to your will.  I accept that you are very grateful and with good cause."

"Excellent." Bard squeezed Thranduil's hand one more time and then let it go.  "Now that that is settled, I did actually have other business here this night."

"Indeed?"  Thranduil seemed surprised.

Bard nodded.  "I am not the only one who is grateful for you actions.  My children are equally appreciative and they wish to show their gratitude.  So, I am here to give you an invitation to join us tomorrow for dinner.  Sigrid's got the whole thing planned.  She's had Bain and Tilda hopping all day.  We would all be very glad if you and Legolas would join us."

Thranduil's frown returned.  "Why are you inviting Legolas?"

"Why wouldn't we?  He's your son.  You're my friend.  I thought it would be nice if our families spent some time together." Bard shrugged.

For a long moment, Thranduil simply stared at Bard.  He looked like he didn't know how to respond.  Finally he shook his head slightly, and he seemed to remember that he was supposed to give Bard a response.  "Yes, ah, Legolas and I would be happy to join you."

Even as he spoke, he moved over to the table and poured himself a glass of white wine.

"Is something wrong?"

Thranduil glanced at him, still looking oddly flustered.  "No.  No, it is just . . . No, we _are_ friends and a dinner together with your family sounds lovely."

"You sound as if you've never had such an invitation before.  Do you not dine with your friends?"

"Of course I do." Thranduil sounded slightly indignant.  It passed quickly as he tried to explain.  "I confess I do not have many _new_ friends.  It has been a while since . . . Well, there is not much change among Elves."

He simply shrugged as if he had no good explanation for his reaction to Bard's invitation.  Bard thought it was rather endearing actually.

"Well, I hope this is not the only invitation you will accept with us.  I know my children will love Legolas, and I hope to meet your elder son some time too."

"Oh, I am sure you will be satisfied on that score soon enough.  Seledhel is actually more often away from my realm than I am.  I dispatch him for all my diplomatic negotiations."

Watching Thranduil take a sip of wine, Bard was silent for a moment.  Quietly, he said, "And is that what I am to expect?  Will your son be your representative to me once you leave here?"

Thranduil froze and then put his cup down.  He did not meet Bard's eyes.

Bard could see him weighing his words, considering his response.  Rather sure he wouldn't like the answer, Bard covered Thranduil's hand where it rested on the table with his own.

Clearly startled, Thranduil's head jerked up to look at Bard and seemed surprised to find him so near.

"There was one other matter I wished to speak of with you tonight.  A serious matter.  Perhaps it will have some impact on your answer to me."

That wary look returned full force to Thranduil's expression and Bard could feel the tension in the hand beneath his own.  But Thranduil did not remove it.

"Of course," Thranduil said, his voice calm and neutral.  "You may speak openly here."

Bard let his thumb shift slightly over Thranduil's smooth skin in the subtlest of caresses.  "Our last conversation was interrupted."

This seemed to puzzle Thranduil, who frowned as he tried to place what Bard was talking about.  "I do not rememb-"

"In Lake-town with a dragon breathing down our necks," Bard supplied.

Instantly, Thranduil stiffened in alarm.  An expressionless mask slammed over his features and he tried to pull his hand away.

But Bard was prepared and he caught the hand before Thranduil could retreat completely.

Swallowing down whatever emotion he hid behind his mask, Thranduil said lowly, "Nethril told me you did not remember."

"And I do not.  Well, not exactly anyway.  It's fragmented and foggy to me.  But there's enough that I know it ended abruptly."

"Bard, whatever you think happened, I assure you I do not-"

"Thranduil."

That one word stilled Thranduil completely.  Bard had never called him by his naked name, and Thranduil clearly marked it.  The tension in the hand he held increased, and Thranduil no longer hid the wariness of his pose.

He still did not pull away though.

As gently as he could, Bard said, "I think there has been a bit of a misunderstanding and I wish to rectify that.  I feel you will like what I have to say."

Thranduil looked deeply dubious about that but he held his tongue.

Rather than respond with words, Bard looked down at the elegant hand he was holding.  He let his thumb more overtly caress Thranduil's pale skin, again marveling at how soft it was.

When he looked up, he saw that Thranduil had followed his gaze and was also looking at their joined hands.  His gaze snapped up to meet Bard's as soon as he felt him staring.

"I did not get to say my side of things.  You opened your heart and it is only fair that I do the same."

Bard watched Thranduil swallow; he could practically see the Elf steeling himself to hear something he did not want to hear.

"I'm sure many people have told you that you are beautiful.  I'll admit that was one of the first things I noticed about you.  Beautiful and powerful.  When you came to our aid and road in on your great big charger, I thought I had never seen anything more magnificent . . . or more dangerous.  You are the first person I have ever met who really felt like a king to me."

Using his hold on Thranduil's hand, Bard drew himself closer.  He reached out with his other hand.  Thranduil frowned, tracking the progress of his hand closely, but he did not impede Bard in any way.

Gently, Bard cupped Thranduil's cheek.

"Strong, confident, commanding -- I have never had any trouble understanding why your people are so loyal to you.  Were I unencumbered, I would gladly have followed you."

His thumb now caressed Thranduil's soft cheek.  Thranduil's frown was still in place but he now looked confused.  Bard was gratified to see that the Elf turned into his touch just a little.

"Your beauty captivated me.  I do not think that is a terrible thing to reveal.  It is why I thought I was Elf-spelled.  But your beauty alone does not move me.  Indeed, without knowing you better, I could still believe that you are simply a star in the heavens: remote and cold.  Untouchable."

Bard let his thumb slip down to slide over Thranduil's lower lip.

"But that is not how you remained to me.  Against all my expectations, you invited me in.  Into your circle.  You showed me how worthwhile it was to look deeper.  How much humor you have.  How far you see.  How much warmth there is to your heart.  The longer I have known you, the more I find to admire in you."

Thranduil's eyes were large, his gaze unblinking as he stared at Bard.  It seemed like he was barely breathing.  Bard let his hand slip down over Thranduil's jaw and along his neck.

Bard shifted forward that last little bit so that their chests were practically touching.  Daring greatly but not hesitating, he said, "The more I find to love about you."

He saw Thranduil's eyes widen as he used the hold on his neck to bring them closer.  Thranduil did not resist the kiss but his surprise made him unresponsive.  Bard had anticipated as much.

The first kiss was chaste -- a simple declaration of intent.  By the second kiss, Bard could feel Thranduil finally relax against him.  And on the third kiss, Thranduil finally opened up and kissed Bard back.

Letting go of Thranduil's hand, Bard wrapped an arm around Thranduil's waist and finally held the Elf the way he'd wanted to for weeks now.  It felt good to have the king in his arms.  To taste the wine from his lips.

But Bard only allowed himself a few moments to indulge his desires.  This was far too important to get swept away.

Thranduil did not help his resolve though.  The Elvenking's eyes were dark with desire when they parted.  It had been a long time since Bard had had anyone look at him like that.

He took a long steadying breath before he said, "I said I thought you would like what I have to say.  Have I erred?"

Thranduil simply looked at Bard for a long moment.  He made no move to disentangle himself or remove his hands from where they rested on Bard's chest.  Bard simply enjoyed holding him.  The lengthy quiet did not bother him; he had seen how Thranduil reacted.

"No," Thranduil finally murmured.  "You have not erred.  But I do wonder . . ."

A shadow had fallen over his eyes, which Bard did not like.  He anticipated the Elf's next concern and said, "You are a beautiful, otherworldly Elf.  You are a mighty King.  I do not love you for those things.  And I do not fear losing your aid should I not give you what you want.  You are a father and you are my friend.  Those are much more important to me than the crown upon your head or the titles you boast.  I think I have seen you rightly, and that calls to me far more than anything else.  Do not worry that I am after something or that I am sunstruck.  I think you know me well enough by now to know that I am too simple to chase after whims and fancies."

"Am I so transparent?" Thranduil asked.

Bard shrugged.  "I have had a long time to think on this.  I have not made this decision lightly or quickly.  I have given quite a bit of consideration to your feelings on the matter."

Sliding one hand up Bard's chest so he could cup Bard's jaw, Thranduil asked, "And what are my feelings?"

"Only you could tell me that."  Bard leaned into Thranduil's touch and smiled.

He was again treated to the Elf's silent regard.  Bard was content in the moment though.

"You are a wonder to me," Thranduil finally said.  The look in his eye supported his statement.  He looked at Bard as if he couldn't quite believe he was there.  "What shall I do with you?"

"That is in your hands, my Lord."

Bard's tone was serious and it seemed to finally get through Thranduil's surprise and wonder.  He looked down for a moment, giving the matter some thought.

Meeting Bard's eyes again, he said, "I have come to love you too.  I do not wish to be parted.  I wish . . . But we are kings.  Such things are not easy."

Bard nodded.  "Little in my life is easy.  I do not expect easy, and I do not mind hard.  It is worth it to me, if that accounts in your consideration."

"It does," Thranduil said quietly.  "I . . . I do not know how . . ."

"Well, you would not have to figure it out on your own, would you?" Bard said when Thranduil trailed off.  " _If_ it is worth it to you."

The ring of challenge was clear in his voice.  Thranduil smiled slightly.  "It is."

"Then that is enough for tonight, don't you think?"

Clearly amused, Thranduil nodded.  His eyes studied Bard's features as if searching for the secret of him somewhere on his face.

Bard allowed himself the luxury of sliding his fingers through the Elf's fine hair without any hindrance of propriety.  He then moved his hand back to the Elf's long neck and caressed the skin there.  He had to slip his fingers beneath Thranduil's high collar to do it and that made him realize something.

Bard frowned.

"What is it?" Thranduil asked.

"Do you realize that you have seen me without my shirt twice and I think it might take an army to figure out how to get under all the layers you wear?"

Thranduil laughed.  "There may be a trick or two to divesting me of my garments."

"Tricks I intend to learn."  Bard made sure Thranduil could see the heat in his eyes when he said that -- that his Elf knew what it was he was hinting at.

The answering heat in Thranduil's eyes was very welcome.  It was an act of supreme self control not to accept the invitation he saw therein.

But Bard intended that this would not be a flash-in-the-pan relationship, and he knew he had just completely upended Thranduil's understanding of what was between them.  No, Bard had taken a good deal of time to consider everything.  It was only fair Thranduil had the same time.

Regretfully, Bard said, "But not right now.  I should be getting back.  If my children wake and discover I am not there, they will send out a search party."

"I understand."

Bard could see that Thranduil did understand.  Indeed, he could see both the disappointment and gratitude in his eyes.  He too wished for more -- and Bard was very glad of that -- but he knew it was best not to rush into this.

It was hard to be parted though -- especially now that Bard had permission to touch as he liked.  Now that he had tasted the king and felt his body against his own.

Wrapping his arms around Bard's neck, Thranduil surprised Bard with a kiss of his own.  Bard held the Elf tight to him, letting Thranduil taste him in turn.

When they parted, Bard felt breathless.  He leaned his forehead against Thranduil's and just breathed his breath for long minutes.

They did eventually disentangle themselves.

"I will see you for dinner tomorrow?" Bard asked.

Thranduil nodded.  "Do you desire that we bring anything?"

"Just yourselves."

Thranduil's smile was warm and inviting.  Feeling his resolve hanging on a thread, Bard forced himself to turn away before he gave into temptation.

Slipping out into the cool winter night, Bard couldn't wait for tomorrow.

THE END


	7. Author's Notes

Acknowledgments:  
•I want to send a huge THANK YOU!!!! to my artists Stormbrite, Lynndyre, and Jilly_james.  They were all great to work with.  You can check out their awesome art [HERE](http://serenity-fics.livejournal.com/29838.html). Stormbrite and Lynndyre's AO3 posts can be found [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3849253) and [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3982171).  
•And another huge THANK YOU!!! to my betas Larienelengasse and Jilly_james.  They were both great to work with.  All remaining mistakes are mine.  
•Thank you everyone who read this and I hope you enjoyed it!

Terminology:  
•Leech - archaic word for healer or physician  
•"Ada" - Sindarin for Dad  
•"Adan" - Sindarin for Human Person (see below)  
•Eryn Galen - Greenwood the Great  
•Esgaroth - Lake-town  
•Celeduin - River Running  
•Hithaeglir - Misty Mountains  
•*Emyn Engrin - Iron Hills (rough translation)

General Notes:  
•Story inspired by this [HK prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=24964725#t24964725). 

•The title Dragon-spell comes from The Hobbit: " _Bilbo was now beginning to feel really uncomfortable.  Whenever Smaug's roving eye, seeking for him in the shadows, flashed across him, he trembled, and an unaccountable desire seized hold of him to rush out and reveal himself and tell all the truth to Smaug.  In fact, he was in grievous danger of coming under the dragon-spell_."

•I have assumed that Dorwinion is an Elvish kingdom in this fic.

•The Hobbit takes place in TA 2941.  The White Council where Gandalf definitively identifies Sauron as being alive in Dol Guldur takes place in 2850 (this is also the same time that Gandalf meets up with Thráin and gets the key of Erebor).  That's 91 years earlier than The Hobbit.  I don't know if Thranduil was on the Council but I think it likely he would be told what was discovered in his own forest or at least suspect it.  So Thranduil has known for almost a century that he shares his forest with Sauron.

It says in Unfinished Tales, " _But there was in Thranduil's heart a still deeper shadow.  He had seen the horror of Mordor and could not forget it.  If ever he looked south its memory dimmed the light of the Sun, and though he knew that it was now broken and deserted and under the vigilance of the Kings of Men, fear spoke in his heart that it was not conquered for ever; it would arise again_."  I had these two pieces of information in mind when I explored Thranduil's motivations for initially marching on Erebor.

•Note about the word "Adan" - I know this should be a term exclusively used for the Dúnedain at this time period but I couldn't find another singular Sindarin term for humans (that also didn't have slightly negative connotations).  I figure that since Thranduil isn't near the Dúnedain, he uses the older, broader usage of the term.

Original Characters:  
•Beriedir - Sindarin for Protector (beriad+-dir)  
•Nethril - Sindarin for Healer (nesta-+-ril)  
•Seledhel - Silvan for Wise Elf (sel+edhel)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for' Dragon Spell'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3849253) by [stormbrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormbrite/pseuds/stormbrite)
  * [Dragon-spell [Art]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3982171) by [lynndyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/pseuds/lynndyre)




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